


baby, we built this house on memories

by welcometothemeatshack



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-09-05 02:07:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 65
Words: 22,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16801558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welcometothemeatshack/pseuds/welcometothemeatshack
Summary: A collection of ficlets/drabbles/minifics requested on my Tumblr. Ratings vary, chapter to chapter.





	1. Ambrolleigns (Seth, Dean, Roman) + Ass

**Author's Note:**

> These are my lil minifics requested by my Tumblr children. The Meatshack is always [open for business](http://welcometothemeatshack.tumblr.com/ask/), if you enjoy these.
> 
> I had time today, guys.
> 
> Title is from "House Of Memories" by Panic! because apparently I can't help myself.

“You’re not very good at being subtle, uce.”

Dean hums, accepting the light touch of Roman’s lips on top of his head. “Good. Wasn’t tryin’ to be subtle.” He keeps his eyes forward, focusing solely on Seth, fifteen feet away, in the middle of a set of squats. “He likes when people watch him, anyway; you, of all people, know that.”

Roman laughs softly, sitting himself down beside Dean, picking up a weight. He’s already finished his workout, but a little longer can’t hurt, not when the view is so good.

“Our boy’s got a lot to be proud of, but his **ass** is his prime achievement.”

Roman chokes on a laugh and Seth looks back at them both, doe eyes narrowed in an (ineffective) glare; Dean’s expression turns fully lecherous.

Seth huffs, putting down his own weights, and turns to face them. “If you two are done being creeps, I’m ready for a shower.”

It’s embarrassing how quickly they both scramble to follow him.


	2. McBalor/Balortyre, hurt

“Still **hurt**?”

Finn flicks his gaze from the floor up to Drew’s, glaring half-heartedly. He presses the ice pack a little firmer to his jaw. “Let’s get you kicked in the jaw,” he snarks, turning his attention back to his feet. “You’ll be able to answer your own question.”

Drew’s answering laugh is closer than his voice was and Finn sees booted feet moving into his periphery until they’re directly in front of him. He looks up again when Drew kneels and urges Finn’s hand and the ice pack away from his face, a thumb and forefinger gripping his chin, turning his face to give Drew a better look.

“Probably won’t bruise,” he comments idly. “Don’t expect me to kiss it better.”

Finn scowls, rolling his eyes and slapping away Drew’s hand. “As long as you don’t expect to be coddled when I put my feet through your chest next week.”

The Scot chuckles and offers no complaint when, the next week, Finn does exactly that.


	3. McBalor/Balortyre, NSFW, thighs,

McIntyre forces Finn’s **thighs** wider, one big hand hooking the underside of Finn’s right knee and pressing his leg back and to the side, spreading him further as the Scot looks down at him, tongue peeking out to swipe his lower lip. “If only your little Club pals could see you now, spread open to be fucked, like you were made for it.”

Finn is unimpressed and shows it with a roll of his eyes. “You say it like none of them ever _did_ see me like this.” He and his Club members were closer than family, closer than most people get with even their spouses (which made the betrayals hurt even worse, the pain magnified ten-fold).

Drew - _McIntyre_ , Finn corrects himself - chuckles in that dark way of his, low and rumbling. “I’d figured as much,” he says and Finn huffs.

“I’ve a lovely bed waiting for me in my hotel room, if you’d hurry it along.”

That surprises a genuine laugh from McIntyre, his face softening in a strange way. He smirks, tells Finn, “I won’t keep you waiting any longer, then,” and reaches between them, slides a condom down his slickened cock and pushes forward to nudge it against Finn, the latter inhaling sharply as the thick head slips inside.

It’s quick and _hard_ and Finn’s body is sliding back and forth on the locker room’s bench, but McIntyre doesn’t slow down or coddle Finn, just _keeps going_ , and Finn is grunting out nonsense words, hands clamped tightly on the bench’s sides in an attempt to ground himself and gain leverage of his own, but then he’s arching and gasping and warmth covers his belly in short bursts.

McIntyre stops abruptly and Finn thinks he’s come as well, but he pulls out quickly, hurriedly pulling off the condom and stroking once, twice-

His thighs are covered, McIntyre smoothing one big palm over them to rub his release in. It’s disgusting.

A shower sounds amazing, so he rolls off the bench, ignoring the panting Scot, and heads in that direction, not deigning to respond to McIntyre’s invitation for a repeat.


	4. Rolleigns, snuggling

“You’re like a giant teddy bear, y’know that?” Seth snickers. Roman grunts, **snuggling** closer, arm tightening further around Seth’s waist, and Seth outright laughs now. “ _See_? Just a big Build-A-Bear with a heart full of fluff!”

“Shut up, Rollins,” mutters Roman, eyes closed, cold nose smooshed against the nape of his lover’s neck. “See what you’re saying when I spear you into next year.” A violent snort makes him sigh. “Get your mind out of the damn gutter.”

Seth is shaking with laughter in Roman’s arms. “You’re the one who said it, teddy bear.”

God, the hell Roman deals with some nights; no one gives him enough credit for his struggle.

“Shut up and go to sleep, Seth.”


	5. Rolleigns, glasses

“I hate these,” Seth complains, shoving his **glasses** up the bridge of his nose.

Roman chuckles and steps up behind Seth, wrapping his arms around the younger man’s waist, placing his chin on Seth’s shoulder, staring into the bathroom mirror in front of them. They make an attractive picture, he thinks as he admires their reflection. “I like them,” he murmurs, nosing at the soft skin behind Seth’s ear, nudging the glasses in turn, drawing a scowl from Seth.

“You don’t have to _wear them_ ,” is the reply as he uses his finger to set the thick frames right once again. There’s a hint of vulnerability behind the lenses, Roman notices in the mirror before Seth looks down at the sink, fumbling with the tap for no other reason than to not have to look at the reflected image, at Roman’s face.

Roman’s noticed this about Seth, the dislike of his glasses; he never wears them if he can help it, but sometime - like today - his eyes are too irritated for contacts and he’s forced to either wear them or further bother his eyes and he always seems a little less himself. “I don’t,” agrees Roman, “but-” and he turns Seth away from the mirror, facing him, arms still around the shorter man’s waist. “-even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to pull them off, not the way you do.” Seth rolls his eyes, but Roman persists. “I’m serious.” He tips Seth’s head up with his chin between a finger and thumb, brown eyes shining with doubt through lenses. “You’re beautiful.”

Seth’s cheeks go a little red, but he rolls his eyes again, a small smile on his lips. “And you’re a sap,” he claims, but accepts the kiss Roman moves to press to his lips, snorting when his nose knocks the glasses askew.


	6. Rolleigns, thighs

“Can’t believe how _thick_ you are now,” Roman hums, lips trailing slowly up Seth’s scarred knee (he presses a few gentle kisses there, across the scar, and smooths his thumb over the thick line) to his **thighs**.

Seth snorts, reaching down, laying his hand on the back of Roman’s head (he’s careful not to snag Roman’s hair; Roman is _very_ strict about his hair and pulling it a _no-no_ ). “You literally just saw me a month ago. I looked exactly the same then as I do now.”

Roman lets his tongue lick up Seth’s inner thigh, stops just short of where Seth wants him. “Uh-uh, baby,” he purrs, kissing Seth’s hip, large hand squeezing Seth’s muscled thigh. “You got _bigger_ ,” he says and Seth would feel self-conscious at that if Roman’s eyes weren’t so intent, so dark and beautiful, as they stare up at him; instead, his breathing comes a little faster now and his throat tightens up, making it harder to swallow.

“ _Ro_ -” Roman’s lips are on his before he gets Roman’s name out, Roman’s soft belly rubbing over his sensitive cock, and Roman’s big hands grip Seth’s (thick) thighs, urging them around his hips.

Looks like Seth’s return is going to be even better than he’d anticipated.


	7. Rolleigns, chest

"Roman?” Seth chews rapidly on the piece of gum he’s been attacking for the last five minutes. Roman either is ignoring him or is too absorbed in unbuttoning his Shield uniform pants to listen. “Babe.”

Roman turns, those strong back muscles disappearing and putting him face-to-face (well, face-to- **chest** ) with the front of his amazing body, tattoo dark and intricate across one defined pec, smooth skin, the soft belly no amount of push-ups could get rid of (and Seth not-so-secretly enjoys it, makes sure Roman knows it when they get alone and Roman is finally out of the vests and tank tops and- what was his point?). “Seth,” he says, little smile on his face. “Babe.”

Seth rolls his eyes, but quickly trains them back on the muscled arms and smooth chest and- right. Yeah. “Tell me again,” he wheedles, popping his gum as obnoxiously as possible. “Tell me why you wear the vest.”

Laughing, Roman rolls his own eyes, looking playfully at Seth. “Gettin’ ideas, baby?”

“ _Always_ ,” breathes Seth, licking his lips, eyes darkening, and Roman moves a little closer, Seth’s gaze staying glued to the tattoo over his chest, mouth a little dry. “Can-”

“You guys ready to go or what?” Dean shouts out, banging on one of the locker doors. “You’d better be because I ain’t waitin’ while you two fuck it out.”

Roman’s face immediately goes red and Seth chokes a little, but recovers easily. “You go on ahead, then,” he calls back, eyes shining, and Roman goes even darker while Dean’s cackle echoes through the locker room.


	8. Rolleigns, hair

Roman keeps his arm around Seth’s waist, siding open the shower door and turning the hot water on full before turning back and carefully helping him out of his loose sweats and shirt, shoes and socks having been abandoned by the room door as soon as they’d come inside. He offers a sympathetic wince and a gentle caress when Seth whimpers, murmuring softly, “Sorry, babe.”

Seth closes his eyes, the little dent between his eyebrows appearing. “Can’t believe Lesnar came in and screwed up your match.”

Shaking his head, Roman replies, “I can’t believe you fell off _another cage_ through _another table_.” He’s choosing not to think about Lesnar, about the bullshit ending - and he’s _trying_ not to think of Seth slamming into that announcers’ table, body jostling and head bouncing, but they’d been replaying it when he and Dean had finally gotten Seth backstage and it looked _terrible_. They’d taken him to get checked out and, thankfully, trainers and doctors had all agreed that nothing was broken and there was no sign of a concussion - but Roman knows none of that makes a difference to how the aftermath _feels_.

“C’mon,” he says and steps into the shower and helps Seth slowly in after him, underneath the hot stream. “Here.” He grabs Seth’s shampoo and carefully pulls the younger man to him, letting Seth rest his forehead in the curve of his neck, popping open the lid and filling his palm behind Seth’s back. Seth has relaxed a little against him, which makes Roman smile before he reaches up and begins massaging the shampoo into Seth’s wet **hair**.

They’re silent for the rest of the time, only the sounds of the water falling and Seth’s occasional grunts when Roman snags a particularly stubborn tangle as he rinses out the shampoo and smooths in the conditioner or hits a tender spot on his back as he gently runs a soapy cloth over the already-bruised skin. Roman gets the conditioner out of Seth’s hair, then turns to finish his own shower, his ribs twinging slightly when he lifts his arms, and quickly shuts off the water, exiting the shower and drying both of them off, getting an extra towel for Seth’s hair and patting his own dry at the ends before leading them both to the bed and carefully helping Seth slip underneath the duvet and following.

He tries to avoid touching Seth’s battered body, but Seth slowly manages to get himself on his side and tucks against Roman’s, head on his bicep. “G’night.” He kisses the bare skin closest to his lips, nosing against the tattooed pec after.

Roman smiles, eyes closing, and lifts his hand to run his fingers through Seth’s damp hair. “Night, baby.”


	9. Zowens #16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from [this post](http://welcometothemeatshack.tumblr.com/post/180244604322/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a/).

**16\. …lazily.**

“Can you at least _pretend_ you’re listening right now?”

Kevin opens one eye, peering blearily at the dark outline of Sami against the sunlight glaring through the most useless set of hotel window blinds in the world. He says, slowly and clearly, “Hey. Trying to sleep here. Shh,” and closes his eye again.

“It’s noon,” Sami deadpans. “You just woke up, like, two hours ago.”

“So call it a nap,” retorts Kevin, unbothered. “Now, shh.”

Of course, though, this is Sami.

Kevin bounces just a bit as Sami hops on the bed next to him and he opens his eyes to glare at the redhead on his knees beside him. “ _What_?”

“I _said_ I’m _hungry_.” Sami rolls his own eyes and bounces again, Kevin’s side of the bed barely affected by the movement.

“It’s noon,” Kevin snarks. “You just ate breakfast, like, two hours ago.” All he gets is a light smack on the shoulder in return for his (correct) comment, so he closes his eyes again, intent on a nap.

“Kev.”

Goddammit. “Sami.”

“Kev.” There’s warm breath on Kevin’s lips, a nose nudging his, then there are lips on his and Kevin responds because he’s a man and also he’s not going to deny a kiss to the man in bed with him (god, he’s gotten too soft, just listen to him). It’s gentle, lazy, lips moving in slow tandem the way they do during their last kiss of the night.

Sami pulls back and Kevin’s eyes are still closed when Sami murmurs, “Babe? Food?”

“Babe,” Kevin hums back, lips quirking. “Nap time. Shh.”


	10. Zowens, love

“The way you **love** milk is your biggest character flaw and I am disgusted by you right now,” Sami says with an appropriate pull of face as he slides into bed, leaning back against the headboard.

“If you think _this_ is my biggest flaw,” Kevin says, taking the final gulp of milk from the jug he’d picked up at the convenient store before they’d gotten to the hotel, “then you haven’t been paying nearly enough attention to me.”

Sami barks out a laugh and starts to reply, only to be abruptly yanked down the bed to lie on his back, a mischievous-looking Kevin moving to pin his shoulders to the mattress as he leans down.

“Ew,” protests Sami, laughing and trying to turn his head to avoid him, “your breath smells like milk, you heathen, get away!”

Kevin is quick, though, and catches Sami’s lips before he can escape, slipping his tongue into the familiar warmth and laughing while Sami crinkles his nose; he’s still laughing a minute later when Sami mutters “disgusting” against his lips and tells him to go brush his teeth.


	11. Zowens #23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from [this post](http://welcometothemeatshack.tumblr.com/post/180244604322/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a/).

**23\. …in relief.**

It’s strange, being the one waiting in the operating floor’s waiting room (is this the way Kevin felt, waiting for him like this while he was getting his rotator cuff repaired - because Sami Does Not Like This and he hates that he has to go through it now and that Kevin will be going through it at least once more over the next few weeks); it’s been _hours_ since Kevin went in, rolling his eyes and waving his hand at Sami’s nervous babbling, like he had not a care in the world even as Sami’s world was being rocked on it’s figurative axis.

Logically, he knows that the best doctors and surgical staff are with Kevin in that cold, sterile room right now - he _knows it_ and he isn’t worried about anything going wrong, not really, it’s just that Kevin has always been the stronger of the two of them, more at ease or _chill_ or whatever the kids call it these days and Sami is terrified that the reason it’s taking so long is because they’d found something more serious, like a staph infection like Ambrose’s or something.

It’s five hours after their original time estimate (with only a few calls into the waiting room to offer updates - they _had_ found more damage than expected, he’s told, but nothing that can’t be fixed with the surgery and extensive rehabbing) and Sami stands to stretch and make his way out of the waiting room to find a vending machine (he eats when he’s stressed and he’s just finished the last corn chip from the bag he’d gotten forty-five minutes ago), but then a feminine voice says his name ( _Mr. Zayn, wait_ ) and he turns and there’s _Kevin_ , being wheeled on a hospital bed between three nurses.

He’s half-aware, it seems, whatever drugs they’d put him up with keeping him docile and silent and he looks blearily at Sami, eyes cloudy and with that gross sleep crust, and Sami feels his heart finally claw its way out of his throat, _god_. They’re in Kevin’s new home for the next few days or however long the doctor decides to torture him with incarceration and the nurses fix Kevin’s pillows and tables and his bed and situate his legs correctly and _finally_ , finally Sami is alone with Kevin and he can’t stop the strangled little laugh he chokes out before he’s leaning over and kissing Kevin, clumsy and off-center and _relieved_ , and Kevin is too drowsy and drugged to say anything to him, but a heavy hand manages to find Sami’s fist clenched on the bed frame and, as their fingers interlace, Sami is finally able to breathe.


	12. Baloreigns, SFW, Anger

Reigns is standing next to the exit door when Finn finally shakes off all the congratulatory handshakes and welcomes, just leaning against the doorframe, looking down at the phone in his hand, thumbs tapping away a message, and Finn is not ready for whatever is going to happen; he’s sore and tired and wants nothing more than a shower and a bed, maybe not even in that order - a hallway brawl is _not_ something he’s interested in.

Only when the bigger man lifts his head, looks directly at Finn, there’s no **anger** , only a wide smile, like he is happy to see him - except Finn just stole away his shot at this new title (well, not _stole_ ; he’s aware enough to know that he had earned his victory tonight, _both_ of them).

“That was a great match,” Reigns is saying, smile still present. “I’m a little embarrassed to tell you that I started the night off underestimating you.” Finn scowls, but doesn’t say anything because he’s used to this, used to men like this believing that it’s purely size and strength over speed and agility. “Pretty stupid,” he chuckles and Finn raises an eyebrow. “I mean, Seth’s about your size and he can-“ There’s a sudden silence, only the slightest echo resounding in the deserted hallway, the corners of the Samoan’s eyes tight with a remembered pain, and Finn understands this, too - the hurt of betrayal, even years in the past.

He’s never been one to enjoy a man’s suffering when they aren’t in the ring, so he offers his hand and says, cracking a small smile of his own, “It really was a great match.” He sees Reigns’ eyes dart to his lips for a split moment and-

A big hand closes around his, completing the offered handshake, then remaining as Reigns asks, “Do you need a lift?” Finn notices something different in the taller man’s eyes now, less pain and more something _else_ and Finn could- yes, he can get behind that; it’s been a very long time since he’s indulged that particular side of himself, after all, but-

“Anderson and Gallows are waiting in the car for me,” he finally says, a little regretfully, letting out a short laugh when he adds, “They’ll send a search party if I’m not out in a bit.”

The younger man’s lips quirk into an easy grin once again and it’s a much more natural look on him, Finn thinks, than anything else he’s seen so far.

“Next time, then?”

Finn debates only a moment before replying, “Next time.”


	13. Ranbrose, pleasure

Trust is something that’s not come easy for Dean in his life (only once had it been and look what that got him - a chair to the back and a broken heart - but he’s learned his lesson, absolutely he has).

Pain, though - yes, pain, on the other hand - that comes easy to him; inflicting or receiving, it’s been a part of his normal life and his career for as along as he can remember. He’s so used to it (so used to it, so he should never have been surprised at the cheap shot because trust leads to pain and he _knows_ that); he’s so used to pain, Dean muses, that good things are almost _foreign_ at this point in his life.

He doesn’t like letting people at his back (chair shots, cheap shots, pain, _hurt_ , broken heart), but if Orton fucks him over, he’s - in essence - fucking _himself_ over in their tag match tomorrow night. He doesn’t like letting people touch him (memories of whisper-light fingertips over his face), but his neck is fucking _killing_ him and Orton is here and- huh.

It’s surprising that hands that have caused so much damage can bring such **pleasure** (he hates himself, just a little, that he sounds like a dramatic poet or some shit with that); he’s annoyed that he’s allowing this, but _goddamn_ -

“You gonna let up on the moans or not?” Orton’s voice is amused and Dean wants to hit him.

“Fuck off.”

Orton’s fingers squeeze tight at his tense muscles. “Or I could fuck _you_ later.”

Dean stiffens, entire body tense now, but then: “Funny, you think you’ll be the one fucking _me_.”

Fingertips trail along the lines of his shoulders, around to his collarbone. “I think I’ll have you begging before we even leave this locker room.”


	14. Ranbrose, trust

In retrospect, Dean has probably not made the most intelligent decision here, but he rarely ever does that sort of thing, so fuck retrospect.

“You **trust** me?” Randy asks, voice amused and something else (awed, Dean thinks, like he’s thankful that Dean is giving him this which, again, probably not his wisest decision, but fuck it) and it’s weird, hearing and feeling and fucking _smelling_ the person fucking him, but not being able to see or touch them (courtesy of the goddamned ties and _scarf_ that Orton apparently just carries around in his bag for this sort of freaky shit); he’d thought he wouldn’t like the scarf covering his eyes (in which case, he’d knee Orton in the dick and go), but that had been fine and, surprisingly, so had the ties around his wrists (left loose enough that he doesn’t feel trapped, but closely enough that he can’t easily slip his hands from the loops).

“Shut the hell up and do somethin’, asshole, or untie me and _I’ll_ do it,” he snarks and immediately gets a sharp, but somehow gentle, tap (like Orton is simply testing the waters, making sure it’s alright, even though he’d cleared it with Dean earlier, before the scarf and the ties had even come into play) to his cheek, a reprimand, and - okay, Dean isn’t opposed to this, either, what the fuck.

Randy clicks his tongue, a breathy laugh rushing over Dean’s neck where Orton’s face must be hovering now, the other man’s bare torso pressing flush to his own (the position is doing great things for Dean with the way Orton’s dick shifts inside him, Jesus _fuck_ ), and he says, “You needed someone to do this for you, didn’t you? All that pent-up aggression and anger,” like the asshole isn’t literally the exact same kind of fucked in the head that Dean is.

Dean just rolls his eyes, which doesn’t matter, obviously, but he feels like he conveys the action with his tone of voice when he rolls out, “How about you just get to actually fucking me instead of psychoanalyzing me, jackass?” and rolls his hips against the Viper’s own, delighting in the hiss it elicits and this may not be the best decision he’s ever made, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get a good night out of it.


	15. Junk, NSFW, tattoo

“Good?” Punk murmurs, lips trailing over the lines of the dragon where the colorful **tattoo** trails over Jeff’s shoulder blade.

Jeff grunts, shoving back against Punk, burying his face in the duvet below him. “It would be if you’d _move _,” he retorts a little weakly, making Punk chuckle. “Phil,” Jeff starts and the other man snorts. “Move or I’ll go shower and take care of it myself.”__

___Phil_ shakes with silent laughter even as he hauls himself up, steadying himself by gripping Jeff’s hips, fingers squeezing and tapping playfully. “Impatient.” Jeff tenses his arms, going to shift to prop himself up on his elbows, but Punk firms his hold and shoves forward, forcing a yelp from Jeff that trails off into a moan. “Happy?” Punk snickers, moving one hand to Jeff’s shoulder, dragging his nails down the dragon’s curves, eliciting a hiss._ _

__“Shower’s still an option,” comes the breathless reply._ _

__Punk laughs outright, but draws back and fucks into Jeff, erasing all thoughts of showers until all is said and done._ _


	16. Junk #29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from [this post](http://welcometothemeatshack.tumblr.com/post/180244604322/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a/).

**29\. …as a promise.**

It’s always different, Jeff reflects, knowing you’re supposed to go out and fight your heart out and lose.

What’s worse, he thinks, is going out there, fighting your heart out, _winning_ , and knowing you’re only going to hold that precious gold for mere moments before it’s taken away.

“Hey.” Jeff starts; usually no one disturbs him when he’s getting himself mentally prepared for a match like this (granted, most of his matches put his body on the line, no matter how ordinary, but a ladder match always puts the biggest risk and mental strain on him, knowing that even the slightest misstep from that height could end his career). Punk offers a sheepish smile and shrugs before stepping into the silent locker room, tongue playing at the corner of his mouth, flicking the familiar ring side-to-side. “Know you usually like to be alone before a match,” he says, but continues, eyes on Jeff, “but I thought I’d come see if you’re good.”

Jeff tilts his head and chuckles a little. “I’m always good,” he replies, bouncing in place, keeping his heart rate pumping fast.

Punk sighs and steps closer. “I’m not asking for your bullshit front right now. I’m asking seriously. This cash-in - are you good? Because I know how it feels going into something like this, putting your all in, and knowing your glory’s gonna be stolen away at the end of the night by some bullshit storytelling from Vincent K. McMahon.”

Jeff laughs, but stops short when he glances over at Punk, tongue still messing with his lip ring, an all-too-familiar tell that something more is bothering him. Finally, it clicks.

“What, you think I’ll resent you for it?” The lip ring stops moving as Punk’s jaw tightens. “You do.” Sometimes, Jeff muses, it’s strange to know that Punk is the younger of the two of them, even if only by little more than a year, because he’s always the more put-together and mature one, while Jeff - well, Jeff will always be a teenager at heart.

It takes less than three steps before he’s in front of Punk, grinning at the glare thrown at him as he lifts his hands and cups that sharp jawline. (Jeff is always fascinated by the way Punk’s eyes change color with the light; the light brown is a beautiful hazel right now, breathtaking in the way few things have ever been for Jeff.)

“Pretty sure I’m not the only guy in this locker room who deserves a title around his waist.” Punk’s eyes roll and he scoffs, but doesn’t say anything. “M’not gonna turn around tomorrow and tell you I’m sick of you because you have the title and I don’t.”

(This thing between them, it’s still new, still timid, so Jeff understands where the worry is coming from, but he’s determined to chase it out with reassurance.)

Leaning closer, Jeff smiles brightly and says clearly, “I’m not gonna be pissed at you for this. Promise,” and it sounds so childish coming from a thirty-two year old man, but it loosens the jaw he’s holding in his palms and earns him a quick smile and another eyeroll, so he takes it as a win anyway and leans further in, head angled, and presses their lips firmly together, the cool steel of Punk’s lip ring a now-familiar presence. It’s an affirmation of sorts, a promise that won’t be broken, and Jeff is satisfied with the amusement in Punk’s eyes as he pulls away.

“Fine, you sap. Don’t complain to me about your face tonight after I put my knee in it.”


	17. Baylor, disbelief

Bayley knows something is wrong the moment it happens, the second she sees Finn hit the barrier at that angle, the way he grips his arm and looks like he _shoves_ it back into place; she continues watching in **disbelief** and fear at every hit he takes to that arm, biting her thumbnail to the quick as Finn continues on.

It’s a long twenty minutes until the end of the match, until Finn is holding the belt and standing on the turnbuckle in victory (and he’s not lifting the title and Bayley _knows_ it’s bad), and then he’s heading up the ramp and Bayley makes her way to the front to meet him.

He’s gritting his teeth, jaw tight and title still held awkwardly in his right hand, down low at his waist, and he gives her a tight smile as they walk to the trainers’ room.

“It’s bad,” he tells her before they sweep him into the room, leaving Bayley in the hallway, “it’s really bad and I don’t know what I’m going to do, Bay.”

He’s right, of course, and she’s there to hold his good hand when they tell him the results and give him the details of the scheduled surgery and recovery expectations and he’s _Finn_ through the entire thing, smiling and joking and nodding along, but his fingers stay tight around Bayley’s the whole time; she squeezes his hand and rests her head on his shoulder and offers comfort in the only way she knows when it’s over, hugging him tight and leaning in when he hugs her just as tightly with only one arm.


	18. Baylor #31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from [this post](http://welcometothemeatshack.tumblr.com/post/180244604322/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a/).

**31\. …after a small rejection.**

“Bay,” Finn murmurs, catching her chin with his thumb and forefinger, leaning in to put his forehead to hers. “Animals are just difficult to travel with, love, it’s all,” he says, nudging her button nose with his before he tips his head back and presses a firm kiss to her forehead, an apology of sorts to take away the sting.

Bayley sighs, defeat slumping her shoulders. “I know,” she concedes. “It’s just that-“ She wrinkles her brow. “I can’t remember the last time I had a dog of my own.”

Finn’s chest expands a little with the sudden rush of affection (he’s found that happens a lot around her). He wracks his brain and, after a few moments, remembers something Miz had been going on about one day, about Maryse and her love for dogs and visits to-

“There’s a shelter close to here,” he says, feeling warmth in the pit of his belly as she perks up and smiles (that, too, happens a lot, he’s noticed). “How about we go get some things to donate and maybe they’ll let us have a time with some of them?”

Her arms are around his neck before he’s finished speaking, her lips curved in a smile against his neck.


	19. Baylor #8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from [this post](http://welcometothemeatshack.tumblr.com/post/180244604322/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a/).

**8\. …in secrecy.**

“What happened to _not at work_?” Finn chuckles, thumb smoothing gently over the soft skin of Bayley’s hand. He’s exhausted from his matches, more from the one-on-one with Roman than the Fatal Four Way from earlier in the night, and had been hoping to go directly to change in the locker room and catch a ride with Anderson and Gallows ( _like old times_ , he thinks fondly) back to the hotel for a hot shower and a bed; Bayley had snagged him as soon as he’d stepped through the curtain, though, out-of-view of everyone else, and he’s always had a difficult time denying her anything.

“Shh,” she shushes him and he bites back a bark of laughter, careful not to draw too much attention to them and _wherever it is_ that they’re going.

“Bay,” he chuckles, tugging at her hand to slow her down, but she simply stands her ground and drags him with her determinedly. “Bay, where are we even going?”

“Here!” she exclaims triumphantly, a Bayley Grin wide on her face, and pulls open the door of a _storage closet_ and tugs him in behind her, a light coming on automatically above them.

Finn looks around, an amused expression on his face, unimpressed. “Bayley,” he begins, biting back a laugh. “Bayley, why are we in a _closet_?”

“For this!” she grins and leans in, hands coming up to cup Finn’s face as her lips connect to his own. Finn can’t help the responding smile, the gentle cup of his hands on her hips. When she draws back, her smile is still there, softer, and her eyes are bright in the fluorescent light. “Congratulations,” she says quietly and he smiles his own smile as she presses another kiss to his lips.


	20. Baylor #22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from [this post](http://welcometothemeatshack.tumblr.com/post/180244604322/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a/).

**22\. …in a rush of adrenaline.**

Finn grins widely, “too-sweeting” a few young fans at the barrier as he and Bayley make their way up the ramp, leaving an angry Bobby Roode and a defeated Natalya behind at the outside of the ring.

Bayley is practically _bouncing_ in excitement (her normal state, to be honest, Finn laughs to himself) and leftover adrenaline from their win and as soon as they duck through the curtain, she turns, wide smile on her pretty face, ponytail askew as always, and then she’s moving toward him and throwing her arms around his neck and their lips are connecting.

It’s not much of a kiss, to be truthful, because Bayley’s lips are still curved in that beautiful crooked smile and Finn is, too, because he isn’t certain anyone who is faced with the sight of _her_ smile could ever not do the same - no, it’s definitely not the best kiss he’s ever had, but somehow everything with Bayley is still amazing, including the way she can’t stop laughing against his lips, the way she retreats just enough to tilt her head and return at a different angle, this time more on the corner of his mouth than not (but they’re both still smiling and his heart is just a little too full when she lets out a breathless giggle).

He places his hands loosely on Bayley’s hips and pulls back, her arms still wrapped around his neck, eyes sparkling even in the low light, and can’t help but laugh again when she says, bright and happy and so lovely, “We won!”

Finn hums and presses his forehead to hers, noses touching, his hands still cupping her hips, and murmurs, “We’re back on track, love. Back on track.”


	21. Breezango, won

He’d **_won_** , Breeze reflects, elation swelling in his chest; he had _won_ \- with a little help, he concedes as Fandango walks in the locker room behind him.

“So,” he begins, eyes trailing up and down the muscular form of the man in front of him, “you turned on your own partner; edgy - I like it.”

Fandango shrugs nonchalantly and offers an entirely unsubtle once-over of his own, saying huskily, “It seems I’m in need of a new partner now; I don’t know who could possibly take that spot.”

A wicked(ly gorgeous) smile spreads over Breeze’s lips as he replies, voice full of fake wonder, “Now just _who_ could possibly fill that sort of void?”

It’s a very, _very_ good thing these locker rooms have locks, Breeze thinks, smirking as he moves toward Fandango and licking his lips - very good _indeed_.


	22. Ambreigns, pet names

Cutesy little **pet names** are not Dean’s style. No, he’s never been the type to call someone _honey_ or _darling_ or-

“Babe-“

There’s a warm curl in the pit of Dean’s stomach.

“-seatbelt.”

 _Poof_ , it’s gone.

“Listen up, ya bossy Samoan.” Roman snorts out a laugh, turning slightly in the driver’s seat to look at him better, stupidly attractive face (those cheekbones and that goddamn jawline, Jesus _Christ_ , how’s it possible or fair for one man to hold all that power?) alight with amusement, eyes dancing, shining in the soft glow of the overhead light like-

What the hell was he saying? Ah, right. “I’m a grown man.”

Roman hums, sparkling eyes doing a slow once-over of Dean’s body in the passenger seat. “I’m well-aware of just how _grown_ you are, baby.”

Dean’s stomach does a few flips this time (and, _okay_ , some of them are from pure arousal because _Roman_ and _that look_ and _that voice_ are all a very dangerous combination indeed, but the rest of them are because sweet names aren’t Dean’s style, no, but they are absolutely and undeniably _Roman’s_ and they make Dean feel… _good_ about himself). He clears his throat. “Yeah, well. I’m a grown man and I’ll put my seatbelt on when I’m good and ready.” He’ll die on this hill; he _will_.

Roman nods solemnly, but doesn’t conceal his laughter when he says, “Sure thing, sweetheart,” and doesn’t move except to turn the key and shut off the car, making it perfectly clear they won’t be moving until the seatbelt is _on_ , and it’s damn _cold_ , alright, so-

“‘Kay, I’m ready,” he says and tugs the seatbelt on.

(He makes the mature decision to ignore Roman’s bark of laughter.)


	23. Ambreigns #30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from [this post](http://welcometothemeatshack.tumblr.com/post/180244604322/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a/).

**30\. …for comfort.**

“Don’t look so down, for fuck’s sake.”

Roman snorts quietly, letting his head fall back onto the arm of the couch, wincing at the twinge it causes. “I lost. _Again_.” It hurts to say it, hurts to force it out of his gut where it has been settled for the last two hours.

“That’s bullshit.” Dean pushes himself off of the wall he’s against and strides over to him, leaning down over Roman, hands on either side of Roman’s head on the arm of the couch, careful not to catch his curls. “You, me, and everyone in that goddamn arena know good and goddamn well that you won; that ref’s call was complete fuckin’ _bullshit_.”

The thing about Dean, Roman muses, is that he doesn’t lie - not about things that matter (and Roman always seems to matter to Dean). “It doesn’t matter who knows what when Lesnar is still holding the UC title, Deano,” he says softly, weak and self-deprecating smile in place.

Dean stares at him for a few seconds, long enough to make Roman want to fidget, but before he can, Dean is leaning down and his lips are touching Roman’s (chapped, they’re always chapped, no matter how many tubes of chapstick Roman tries to force on him). It’s just a simple kiss, chaste and with no expectation, then Dean does it again - soft and gentle and Roman feels something tight in his chest unfurl at the simple gesture, the horrible sense of _failure_ receding (it’s still there, still deep in him, but it’s- it’s _less_ , somehow, with Dean’s lips conveying so many emotions from the other man).

“You’re gonna get the title, Ro,” Dean says quietly, lips moving against Roman’s, breath hot on his face. “You’re gonna get it and Lesnar and Heyman and everyone else, they’re all gonna eat their goddamn words. You got that?” It sounds like a threat - like if Roman doesn’t “got that”, then he’s gonna get a swift uppercut to the jaw (a gentle one because Dean is a softie), but Roman takes it as the reassurance he knows it’s meant as.

“Got it, babe.”


	24. Ambreigns, NSFW, no

“You tappin’ out, baby?”

“ ** _No_** ,” Dean grits out, jaw tight and eyes shut. His dick is twitching against his stomach, the head flushed a deep red, and he fights back the urge to put his hand on himself again, fights the need to come (and _need_ is what it is now, not only desire) because _Roman_ wants him to, believes he can keep going, and he needs to come, but he also likes when Roman gets that gentle, proud look in his eyes when Dean manages to do what he wants. “No,” he repeats. “I can do it.”

Roman rumbles out a low noise of approval, says, “I know you can, Dean. Just one more time, baby,” and _fuck_ , Dean is ready to _explode_ , but-

“Yeah. Yeah,” he pants, swallowing hard, nodding.

“Alright, sweetheart. Go.”

His own touch is like an electric shock, like someone has put a taser to his spine and it’s lighting up his entire body, bright colors flashing behind his eyes, his hips jerking uncontrollably. His mouth drops open, tongue flicking out to wet his lips, he’s fucking faster into his fist and-

“Stop.”

-and he nearly fucking _cries_ , tears burning the backs of his eyes, teeth biting into his cheeks, his hand flying off of his cock, fingers gripping the bedsheets _hard_ , entire body tense. “ _Roman_ ,” he chokes out and Roman is there almost immediately, trailing butterfly kisses all across Dean’s face, over the stray tear that has managed to leak from the corner of his right eye, big hand stroking back the sweaty hair over his forehead.

“I got you, baby,” is all he says before he slides down the bed, careful not to touch Dean’s dick with any part of his body, and settles into the gap of Dean’s thighs. He doesn’t move for a few long moments and Dean wants to open his eyes, but before he can-

Roman’s lips wrap around the head of Dean’s cock, tongue flicking over the slit, and that’s all it takes for Dean to let go. His hips buck and Roman lets them, keeps his lips over his teeth and swallows.

Dean’s mind goes a little fuzzy, time disappears, but when he’s aware again, Roman is holding a water bottle to his lips, urging room-temp water into Dean’s mouth before he takes his own and sets the bottle on the nightstand. His hand is back in Dean’s hair the next second, Dean’s body tucked against his, and he’s murmuring little praises that Dean normally brushes off, but when he’s like this, they all sound comforting and warm, and Dean listens contently until he falls asleep.


	25. Ballins, tomb

“You wanted to explore a pharaoh’s **tomb**?” Finn mumbles, eyes closing as he rests his cheek on Seth’s shoulder (he’s only a little bitter that their positions can’t be reversed, the bandages and surgical staples refusing to allow it); he feels Seth’s fingers run over the nape of his neck, light and soothing, and he shivers before he says, “Don’t you know those things have curses against intruders?”

Seth laughs and Finn feels the vibrations against his face as the younger man teases, “I wanted to be an archaeologist, so it would’ve been more than just one tomb, but yeah; we did a section on Ancient Egypt and the pharaohs when was about ten and I got it into my head that I wanted to do that stuff, but then Marek-”

Seth goes tense against him and Finn doesn’t know the entire story behind this, doesn’t understand what exactly went down between the two of them so long ago, but he knows (can tell by the tense muscles, the tight clench of his jaw, the strain at the corners of his eyes) that whatever it is, it still _hurts_ and Finn wants to offer his hand, but his good arm is tucked beneath Seth, so he presses a soft kiss the bare skin of Seth’s shoulder instead.

It takes a few moments, but Seth’s body relaxes and his fingers begin moving again from where they’d stilled and Seth murmurs, voice oddly thick, “I’m glad I got into wrestling instead,” and carefully shifts them so that they’re lying on their sides, Seth on his right and Finn on his left, and wriggles enough to put their faces close enough to breath the same breaths, lips nearly close enough to touch.

Finn hums, eyes open and studying the still-tight jaw before he gently knocks his nose against Seth’s and says, voice soft when he replies, “I am, too, love,” and watches the shy grin clear away the tense pain as he connects their lips.


	26. Ballins #31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from [this post](http://welcometothemeatshack.tumblr.com/post/180244604322/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a/).

**31\. …after a small rejection.**

“Babe.” Seth stretches out on top of Finn, tucking his head beneath Finn’s chin. Finn hums and brings his hand up to Seth’s nape, scratching his nails just above Seth’s hairline, letting Seth know he isn’t angry. ( _Hurt_ may be a different story.) “Finn?”

He feels, more than hears, a chuckle vibrate from Finn’s chest into his own. “Yes, love?” The nails scratch a little harder and Seth tries not to _mewl_ like a goddamn kitten, but he can’t stop the full-body shiver.

It takes him a moment, Finn’s nails chasing the words from his mind before he gathers them back. “You know it’s not about you.” He hesitates. “Right?”

Finn’s fingers pause. It’s silent and they’re both still for just a moment before Seth feels a kiss being pressed to his hair. Finn murmurs, accent just a little deeper, “I know, love. It’s alright.” It’s gentle and kind and Seth feels like the worst person in the world.

“It’s not that I’m-” He stops, eyes closing, brow furrowing as he tries to figure out how to phrase it. “I’m not ashamed of you - like, of our friendship _or_ our relationship.” He’s not doing a very good job at- whatever it is he’s trying to do. “I’m-” Seth breathes in deeply, exhales harshly, tilting his head to nudge his nose against Finn’s jaw. “I like what we have being _ours_.” He feels like such an idiot and it’s so _stupid_ because all Finn had wanted was a selfie of them for Instagram or for Twitter or whichever social media Finn decided to use to destroy the masses of fans with the photo, but Seth can’t help it as he continues, “Everyone knows the rest of our lives; I like having _this_ be just for us.”

The line is so cheesy, Seth expects Finn to laugh - not in his face (Finn is too kind for that, always too kind for his own good), but at least a snicker - but, instead, his fingers restart their soothing scratching motion and Seth thinks he feels Finn’s jaw twitch with a smile. “That’s very romantic, love,” Finn chuckles.

Seth’s face warms. “Shut up.” Finn does laugh now and Seth feels his own lips tug at the corners. “It’s _reasonable_ ,” he insists.

“Romantic, reasonable; same thing.” Finn continues chuckling, tipping Seth’s chin up with his free hand, a gentle kiss touching Seth’s lips.

(They’re both smiling like fools and Seth feels his heart beat a little faster, feels the worry in his chest dissolve, knowing any feelings of hurt or resentment on Finn’s side are gone).


	27. Ballins, stay

Finn leads him back to his hotel room, supporting him most of the way. (It’s Seth’s room, not his, and Seth doesn’t remember handing over his room key, so Finn must have searched his pockets, but he doesn’t remember that, either.)

He draws a bath for Seth, prompts him to lift his arms and his feet as he undresses him, then helps Seth into the tub, grip firm until Seth settles, sighing as hot water soothes his sore muscles, his beaten body.

Gentle fingers massage shampoo into his sweat-dried hair, urges Seth to tip his head back into the water to rinse, then repeats with the conditioner before a cloth finally slides over his body and he’s guided out of the tub, patted dry, then led to the bed, where those same fingers tie back Seth’s hair and push him gently under the covers.

Now that Finn isn’t touching him, Seth’s mind fills with the emotions he’d felt earlier in the night: despair, sadness at losing against Ziggler for the IC title; and fury at McIntyre for interfering and causing the loss (despair and sadness are the main emotions at the moment; fury will have its time tomorrow night, Seth decides). He’s so caught up in plans for tomorrow night that it takes him a few seconds to notice Finn moving away from the bed and-

“Don’t go,” Seth mumbles.

Finn pauses, looking back to the bed. “Hm?”

“ **Stay**.” His voice is rough (has he even spoken since the bell rang, since Ziggler left with the IC belt yet _again_?); he says, a little louder, “Don’t leave.” _Please_ , he wants to add, but he doesn’t, doesn’t want to beg Finn to stay if he doesn’t want to.

Finn’s face is soft, lips in a gentle curve of a smile as he tells Seth, “Wasn’t leaving, love. Just wanted to snag some pants, is all,” and he holds up a pair of Seth’s sweatpants before stripping off his shirt and jeans, stepping into the sweats. He slides into the bed beside Seth, underneath the covers with him, and faces him on his side, putting his nose against Seth’s for a quick smile that fades almost immediately. “Ah,” Finn cuts Seth off as he opens his mouth to speak. “Sleep now; talk of vengeance and hellfire tomorrow.”

Seth breathes out a quiet laugh and obeys.


	28. Ballins, SFW, costume party

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

Finn rolls his eyes, walking up behind his boyfriend, arms slipping easily around his waist, laying a kiss on the back of a strong shoulder. “If you don’t want to go,” he repeats patiently, “you don’t have to; Becky knows how you feel about people, love.”

Seth scowls. “What kind of bar shuts down on _Halloween night_ to have a _**costume party**_?”

“A Becky one.”

Seth’s tongue catches the fake fangs at the front of his mouth. “Why am I a vampire again?” Finn gets a wicked look in those blue-blue (gorgeous blue) eyes and Seth cuts him off before the conversation goes too far… south. “Never mind! Forget it. Forget I asked!” Finn’s body shakes at his back, his laughter soft in Seth’s ear. Seth huffs. “What exactly are you supposed to be?”

“The Demon King, Bálor, o’ course!” He steps back and away, arms out to his sides, the black and red and white colors coming together to form a formidable picture (well - formidable if Seth didn’t know exactly who it is beneath the demonic visage). “Sami came over while you were in the shower to help paint me up.”

“You know,” muses Seth. “Most couples do matching costumes.”

Finn snags his wrist and drags him close. “Maybe next year?”

It’s a sort of promise for another year, months and months more of Finn and his ridiculous antics and dragging Seth to his fellow Irish pal’s bar and-

Seth’s heart beats a little faster, his chest swelling, and he has to fight to contain the grin that spreads over his face as he nods, throat tight.


	29. Ballins, NSFW, those damn red trunks

It’s a _crime_ , Seth tells himself. It’s goddamn _criminal_ for this to be considered decent.

“Are you sure those were approved?”

Finn pulls the towel from his face, a little red still from exertion, and tilts his head. “Was what approved, love?”

 _Your gear_ is what he means to say, but instead, “ **Those damn red trunks** ,” comes out and he feels his face heat when Finn laughs.

“What’s the matter, Seth?” Finn’s accent is out in full-force and Seth honestly just wants to _scream_. The Irishman’s lips quirk up (how are his lips always so _red_?) and he takes a step toward Seth, whose heart beats faster. “You don’t like them?”

Seth’s blood is busy rushing in the wrong direction, so he forgives himself for saying, “I’m just wondering how they got passed the PG censors.”

Finn’s grin is equal parts pleased and devious. “They didn’t see anything wrong with them. Do you?” His thumbs hook into the waistband, just above the _very obvious line of his dick_ , and he tugs it outward (not _down_ and Seth is _not_ disappointed).

(Also, he’s appalled at how people so often think Finn is the innocent between the two of them; if they witnessed moments like _this_ , they’d be rid of that delusion very quickly.)

“ _Seth_.” Finn is still grinning - no, _smirking_ now - and he’s still gripping his trunks like it’s a completely casual pose and then Seth is on him, noses bumping and teeth clicking painfully before Seth rights the angle, and his hand is sliding down Finn’s middle (abs for _days_ ) and into the small gap Finn’s maintaining, fingers wrapping around the older man’s hardening cock.

It’s an awkward angle, but Seth manages and Finn seems to be enjoying it, releasing his trunks and moving to grip a handful of Seth’s hair in each hand (and, _god_ , but Seth could come from that alone, he thinks). It’s harsh breaths and rough moans and Seth has to spit in his hand at some point, but eventually Finn’s fingers tighten painfully in Seth’s hair and his hips jerk and Seth’s fingers are slick and sticky and so are Finn’s trunks.

“Well,” Finn pants, breathless laughter following. “I suppose that’s one way to stop me from wearing them.”


	30. Ballins, NSFW, slick

“ _Finn_ ,” Seth whines, thighs tightening around Finn’s hips, ankles locking, pulling Finn even closer, trying to pull him _deeper_.

Finn shudders, hips pressing hard against Seth, his forearms framing Seth’s head, careful of his hair. Their foreheads touch, breaths mingling, bodies **slick** with sweat. “Christ, love,” he pants. “Do you- d’you need a moment?”

Seth’s eyes are squeezed tightly shut, jaw clenched, and he’s breathing shallowly, but he shakes his head, assuring Finn he’s not in pain. “No. No, I need- _move_.”

Seth is like no one Finn has ever been with before: vocal to the point of screaming; demanding and mewling, in turns; shameless with his needs. Finn draws his hips back, presses in again slowly, listens to the frustrated sound that comes from Seth’s throat. He shifts, buries his face in the curve of Seth’s neck, teeth quickly latching onto the sensitive skin there, and continues his torturous pace until Seth’s nails drag up the globes of his ass, making him hiss.

“I said _move_ , not- not _tease_ , Bálor.” Finn smiles against Seth’s neck and puts his teeth and tongue to work again as he pulls out again, pausing with the the head of his cock still inside Seth before shoving back in, a little roughly, just the way Seth likes, and Seth _shouts_ , Finn’s name and expletives rolling out of him.

Finn loses track of time, but it feels like only minutes before Seth is stiffening beneath him, his own hand on his dick between their bodies, lips parted in a half-gasp/half-scream, and Finn fucks fast into him before he becomes too sensitive, moaning as his own orgasm hits and pleasure numbs his mind.

When he opens his eyes, his face is back in Seth’s neck and Seth’s fingers are trailing slowly up and down his back. “You alive?” The hoarse whisper is amused and Finn merely grunts. “Good,” Seth says. Finn can hear the soft smile, the hint of smugness even through the gravel in his voice. “Now get off me - I’m sticky and you’re heavier than you look.”

Finn’s laugh fills the room.


	31. Ambrollins #9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from [this post](http://welcometothemeatshack.tumblr.com/post/180244604322/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a/).

**9\. …in public.**

It’s still strange, being “out”; Seth has always been the type to care just a little too much what others think of him and this, the _staring_ , is making him fidget and itch and wonder what will be on _TMZ_ later tonight or whether he’ll see his own face looking back at him from a random gossip magazine in the next gas station they enter. He doesn’t regret telling the world (well, his Twitter followers, with a selfie of himself and Dean, close together, Seth’s head on Dean’s shoulder, captioned _three years strong_ , but within the hour, he’d gotten so many calls and texts and seen so many capslocked Twitter replies that it had felt like the entire world); he had thought very hard, for months - almost since their second anniversary, truthfully - about telling the fans, with Dean’s approval, and every time he’d hesistated, it had been because of his fear of public judgment (ironic, really, that is one of his greatest fears, considering he’s in the public eye nearly every week).

No, he doesn’t regret being open - _finally_ \- about his love life, but he can never quite shake the anxiety that cloaks him (even now, months after the fact) when he and Dean go out together. They aren’t even doing anything “exciting” today (a quick coffee run before they go for a meeting with the Creative team about a new storyline), but Seth can _feel_ the eyes on him, the paranoid prickling at the nape of his neck and-

“Hey,” Dean says, voice low. “Stop it.”

Seth breathes out a helpless laugh. “It isn’t exactly something I can just ‘stop’.” He shoves his hands into his hoodie’s pocket, wringing his fingers together, unseen, but Dean tugs at one arm with the hand not twirling the keys of their rental. “Can we just go grab our coffees?” pleads Seth, but Dean stops them and moves his hand from Seth’s elbow to twine together with Seth’s fingers. Seth feels himself relax just slightly, the hair at the back of his neck no longer standing on end.

Dean stares at him for a moment (and Seth sees a young girl behind him frantically tap her friend on her arm, eyes directly on them), his eyes roaming Seth’s face for _something_ , and he must find whatever it is he’s searching for because he takes the step closer to put them chest-to-chest, fingers still wrapped around Seth’s, and tilts his head as he leans in, murmuring, “Think I want a kiss before you taste like your disgusting blend of health you call coffee,” and waits, just waits, for Seth to complete the contact between them, to make the choice of letting someone catch an even more intimate moment between them than being so close together they’re literally sharing the same breaths.

Seth hesitates only a moment, eyes flicking toward the two young girls who are at least pretending they aren’t staring now, to the iPhone clutched to the first girl’s chest, no doubt recording; Dean waits and Seth focuses back on him and immediately leans in, their lips brushing gently together for a few moments, just soft and unhurried, and Seth thinks he hears one of the girls sort of squeak, and then Dean pulls back and offers a smile - the _real_ smile he holds only for Seth and Roman and maybe a handful of others - and he turns and tugs Seth along behind him into the coffee shop.

(There’s a photo on Twitter the next day, Seth sees, and he spares only a moment to be annoyed at an obviously private moment being broadcasted to the world - even if they had been almost inviting it - because the photo is- well, it’s beautiful, the way he and Dean are so absorbed in each other, the way it captured Seth’s smile as Dean’s beard brushed against his own. Seth saves it to his photos and retweets it with a simple heart emoji.)


	32. Ambrollins, tongue

It’s difficult to focus on much of anything when Dean’s like this, fingers of one hand _tap-tap-tapping_ on his collarbone and his leg bouncing insistently.

Seth gives it five minutes before he sets away the book he’d planned on reading while they wait for Roman to finish up and puts his full attention on Dean, one eyebrow raised.

“You good?” he asks, leaning forward to lace his fingers with Dean’s on his bouncing knee, watching as Dean’s **tongue** flicks out to wet his lower lip, blue eyes darting to his own brown ones.

“Always good, babe,” replies Dean as he shifts closer, literally on the edge of his seat, nudging his nose against Seth’s, a low chuckle rising as their lips connect.

There’s a groan from behind Seth and a towel lands over both Seth and Dean, Roman grumbling in mock-exasperation, “Can’t even wait until we get to the hotel, uce,” while Seth smiles against Dean’s lips.


	33. Rollintyre, coffee

Drew grips Seth’s curls in a loose fist, tugging the shorter man’s head back until their noses nudge together, their lips a whisper apart.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook for earlier,” he says, voice low and rumbling, “because I’m not too happy with you.”

Seth scoffs, breath fanning hot over Drew’s lips as he says, “You think that scares me, big man?”

A smirk is the only answer Drew offers for a split moment; then, his lips crash against Seth’s, tongue licking firmly into the warm mouth, the lingering taste of _coffee_ lighting up his own taste buds before he draws back with a sharp nip to a full bottom lip.

Seth is still gasping when Drew releases him and walks away.


	34. Rollintyre, truth

It’s a little unsettling, the way Drew stares at him, _through_ him, as if he can see every little **truth** Seth has never been able to tell anyone.

“Stop staring at me,” Seth finally snaps out, and his teeth get set on edge when Drew simply tilts his head back and laughs.

“I just spent half an hour staring at you above me and _now_ you have a problem with it?” he asks, settling back into the pillow behind him, one well-muscled arm (Drew is so… _huge_ , everywhere and Seth hates that he gets distracted by it sometimes) bending to prop beneath his neck, wicked smirk dancing across kiss-swollen lips as Seth splutters.

“That’s- that’s _different_ ,” insists Seth, glaring, leaning over the bed to snatch his phone from the pocket of his pants, only gaining another laugh and a squeeze of his bare ass for his troubles.

Drew lifts an eyebrow, smirk still playing at the corners of his mouth as if to say _‘thought you were pissed, princess’_ , eyes focused on the other man when Seth flops halfway over him, his head laying on well-defined abs as he holds his phone up to scroll through his Twitter feed and says again, “Stop staring at me,” with an eye roll.


	35. Rollintyre, thighs

“Would you shut the hell _up_?” Seth bites out, tensing his muscles and rising up on his knees, head falling back and mouth falling open as he lowers himself immediately after, rocking back-and-forth, experimenting with the sensations, whimpering at the feel of it all.

Drew laughs and rests his large hands on the tops of Seth’s thick **thighs** (god, his fingers can span the entire width of them and something in the pit of Seth’s stomach flips repeatedly), then slides them upward to grip his hips, thumbs pressing in hard as he guides Seth up and quickly pulls him back down, bucking up and fucking deeper into the younger man.

“I was just attempting some light conversation, love; I’m hurt that you only seem to want to use me for sex,” he laments, eyes sparkling, mocking Seth.

“You’re not- _god_ , you’re not funny; stick to your day job,” Seth pants out, leaning forward to brace his hands on Drew’s chest, nails digging in as he takes control again, rising and falling and rocking and moaning and gasping.

A deep chuckle is Drew’s only response.


	36. Rollintyre #7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from [this post](http://welcometothemeatshack.tumblr.com/post/180244604322/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a/).

**7\. …to shut them up.**

“You’re such a _dick_ ,” complains Seth. Drew can see through the glass shower partition as Seth strips off his shirt and tosses it to the floor, just next to Drew’s own pile of clothing.

Drew merely hums and raises one eyebrow. “Yes, well.” He settles back on the shower wall, shivering slightly at the still-cold tile against his back, eyes closed, and ignores the huff he gains in response, loud enough to to be heard over the fall of the water against the tiled shower floor.

“That’s all you have to say about it? Are you serious?”

“That’s all I had to say about it at the arena,” replies Drew, blindly reaching to turn the hot water a little higher before continuing, “That’s all I had to say when you were bitching in the car on the way here, and that’s all I have to say about it now, love.” Pet names usually throw the other man off, make him soft and, consequently and most importantly to Drew at the moment, _silent_.

Unfortunately, this is not the case tonight.

He hears Seth slide open the glass door, step carefully inside and, when he opens his eyes, sees Seth glaring at him before he steps under the water and tips his head back to wet his hair. Drew takes a moment to appreciate the view offered (water droplets running in rivulets down a tanned neck, into sparse chest hair and firm pecs, down the expanse of sculpted abs, into the V leading down to the soft cock against Seth’s inner thigh; he’s tempted to take advantage and spend the rest of the night giving the other man something else to complain about in the morning, but Drew is really quite tired, perhaps even too tired for that because, much as Drew hates to admit it, Angle really did put up a fight), but it’s cut short when Seth asks, annoyed, “What the hell has Finn ever done to you?”

Drew rolls his eyes before shutting them once again. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned with-“ He pauses and reconsiders (because he’s a dick, yes, but he is still debating getting laid later tonight, if this shower perks him up), then says instead, “Don’t you have a match with Nakamura to concern yourself about in a couple weeks?”

Seth slaps a wet washcloth on his shoulder and Drew scowls, opening his eyes to glare even as he takes it and the offered (read: tossed) shower gel, soaping it and lazily running it over the wet skin of Seth’s muscled back. “We’re not talking about that; we’re talking about Finn and about you being a-“

Drew drops the soapy cloth and spins Seth around, steadying him so he doesn’t slip, the words trailing off into Drew’s mouth as he presses his lips firmly to the full lips still forming the word _dick_ (because Drew knows good and well that’s what the little shit was going to say). He lets his teeth nip harshly at Seth’s lower lip, earning a grunt and the sharp bite of fingernails digging into his biceps.

Pulling back, Drew presses back against the wall again, tugging the shorter man with him, and prepares for the continued flood of whatever argument he was much too tired to participate in, but nothing comes. He looks down and meets Seth’s narrowed gaze, dark doe eyes darker still than normal, and lifts his eyebrow again in amusement.

Seth scowls. “Don’t think this is the end of this,” he warns and glues his wet body to Drew’s, kiss fierce and breathless.

(Maybe Drew isn’t too tired, after all.)


	37. Rollintyre #38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from [this post](http://welcometothemeatshack.tumblr.com/post/180244604322/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a/).

**38\. …because they’re running out of time.**

It’s rushed, too fast and too unsatisfying, but it’s all they can manage in the time they have. One of Drew’s thick, bare thighs is slotted between both of Seth’s, thin fabric all that separates them, Seth rutting against it in a desperate effort to finish before someone comes looking for one of them. Drew’s hands are firm and unforgiving at Seth’s hips, guiding Seth’s frantic movements, tight grip no doubt going to bruise and Seth is too overwhelmed with the need and fogginess in his brain to really mind it.

Drew’s match is next (and Seth is only a little - okay, no, a _lot_ \- bitter that he has the main event slot while Seth is stuck in mid-card right now), literally moments away (he can hear Corey on the monitor behind the Scot talking about the rivalry between Drew and Braun and- oh, god, no, don’t think about Braun right now), but Seth has had a hard (ha) night and he’s almost there, he’s _almost_ -

Braun’s music (well, his _roar_ ) hits and Seth loses his momentum a bit, but Drew pulls him hard against him, over and over until Seth gets it right again, and the pounding bass of music can be felt even out of the main arena, and Seth just can’t manage in the time they have-

“I _can’t_ -”

-but then one of Drew’s hands wraps tight in his hair and he growls out, “If you don’t now, you won’t for the rest of the night,” and it’s the gravel in his voice that does it more than anything; Seth shudders _hard_ and lets out an embarrassing almost- _whimper_ and he has no time to enjoy the afterglow, the warm tingling filling his entire body, because Drew withdraws his leg before Seth can settle and uses the hand still wrapped up in Seth’s hair to drag him to Drew’s level and their lips collide in a bruising kiss, rough and over almost as soon as it begins because Braun’s music is fading in the background and Drew’s is about to hit, so Drew keeps it as chaste as a kiss after an orgasm can manage to be before he disconnects and strides out of the room without a second glance.


	38. a-kent requested: Any combo of Roman, Drew, Seth, braiding hair. (I chose Rolleigns.)

“Come here,” Roman murmurs, tugging Seth to him, urging him to sit on the floor between his thighs, snagging the brush Seth has been using.

Seth sits, curls his knees up, and rests his chin on his knees as Roman finishes brushing his wet hair and begins the process of sectioning off three pieces, braiding it slowly, loose enough that it won’t give Seth a headache during the night, but tight enough it won’t fall out and be too tangled for him in the morning.

“You gonna stay quiet all night?” Roman asks - a little teasing, a little concerned - as he methodically crosses section after section, Seth’s head bowing to rest his forehead to his knees as Roman gets halfway through the French plait.

“No,” shrugs Seth, a soft mumble, and Roman relaxes a bit.

He finishes the braid, tying it off and moving his hands to rub at Seth’s shoulders, massaging them as he leans forward to press a butterfly kiss to the back of his neck.


	39. Ballins, licks

Finn laughs, a breathy sound, and pets absentmindedly at Seth’s head, fingers running through the tangled mass of hair; Seth curls his tongue over the line of his abs, **licks** at the smooth skin and smiles against it at the responding twitch.

“You’ve already done me in, love,” chuckles Finn, scratching affectionately at the nape of Seth’s neck before he continues with, “As much as I’d enjoy it, I don’t think I’ll be going again for another couple hours or so, thanks to that talented tongue of yours; give me a moment and I’ll return the favor.”

Seth hums in acknowledgment, shifting, licking up the center of the Irishman’s chest, crawling to hover above him on all fours, lips finally meeting Finn’s with a crooked grin and a low, panted, “I want you to eat me out, instead,” and Finn’s dick gives a valiant effort, twitching against his thigh, breath stuttering at the thought.

“Well, now, that’s an idea, isn’t it?” he murmurs, lips quirking, and his heart speeds back up again.

Seth’s only response is a bark of laughter as he straddles Finn’s chest and turns around.


	40. Ambreigns, need

“Would you settle _down_ , for Christ’s sake?”

Dean huffs and continues pacing, fingers tapping against his bare chest. “Don’t ask me to ‘settle down’.”

Roman sits up in bed and tosses the comforter off him (and he’d thought he’d get an easy night of sleep tonight. Ha). “Fine,” he says, then rephrases, “you _**need**_ to settle down.”

An unamused half-glare and a sock swiped from the floor is thrown his way; Roman bats it away with an unimpressed eye roll. “What I _need_ is to kick Seth’s ass.”

 _‘Round and ‘round we go_ , Roman thinks tiredly. _We always come back to this_. “Dean, you’ve been at that for over a year now. Don’t you think it’s time to just-“ He doesn’t say _forgive him_ because Roman hasn’t quite gotten there, himself (he’s working on it, he is, but there’s still a lot of pain in his chest when he thinks of his little brother; eventually, he’ll get there). “Don’t you think it’s time to move on?”

Dean scowls and resumes his pacing (he’d paused momentarily to stare incredulously at Roman). “What I think is it’s time for him to be put in his fuckin’ place.” His fingertips tap away, a sign of his agitation, and Roman snags his wrist on his next pass by the bed, tugging firmly enough to force Dean to sit next to him. “ _What_?” Dean snaps.

Sighing, Roman chooses not to address _the Seth issue_ right now, instead moving his hand from Dean’s wrist up to the nape of his neck, squeezing gently. Dean’s face loses a little of it’s ferocity as he presses just slightly back into the grip. “I’m tired; _you’re_ tired. Lie down with me, babe.” He adds another soft squeeze before he releases Dean’s neck and settles back into bed, reaching behind Dean to click the lamp’s dull light off.

It’s silent, still, for a few seconds - and then the bed shifts and Dean slides down next to Roman, one leg sliding over one of Roman’s, a bare torso pressing against his side. There’s a dark grumble that vibrates from Dean’s chest. “Don’t think I don’t know this is just a ploy not to talk about me beating Seth’s ass.”

It’s dark and Dean can’t see him, but Roman bites back his grin anyway. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he denies and turns his head to nudge his nose in still-damp curls, presses his lips there.

Dean’s huff holds enough _oomph_ to get his disbelief across, but he says nothing more, ear against Roman’s chest, fingers tracing his name over Roman’s collar.


	41. Rollintyre, break

Seth removes his nails from Drew’s shoulders, blood dotting the crescent indents, as Drew shoves his legs up, big hands (big enough to **break** Seth, if he put his mind to it, Seth thinks; the chill that goes through him is more _excitement_ than _fear_ ) pushing his thighs down, Seth’s knees to held to his own chest.

“What was that?” asks Drew, shifting upright, the change in position making Seth squeeze his eyes shut tight for a fleeting moment; Drew’s thumbs rub almost absentmindedly at Seth’s skin.

Seth grits his teeth and huffs, but snaps out, “I _said_ you need to up your game because I’m falling asleep down here,” and, _fine_ , that’s not what he said, but Seth has no desire to feed Drew’s massive ego at this particular moment in time, so-

Drew laughs, entire body shaking (and _Christ_ , that feels good) as he teases, “You’re a goddamn brat.”

Before Seth can open his mouth, annoyed protest on his lips, Drew releases his thighs and leans back down, hips working, fingers gripping bruises into the skin of his hips, and all that comes from Seth _or_ Drew for the next while are gasps and moans and pants, their foreheads touching, breaths shared.


	42. Ziggintyre, baby

“Y’know, for such a big guy, you play the part of a toddler throwing a tantrum pretty well - like a giant, hairy, Scottish **baby**.”

Drew scowls and tugs on his shirt, turning to face Dolph, replying, “Shut your mouth before I shut it for you,” accent thick, eyes narrowed.

Dolph laughs, leaning back against the closed door of the locker room as he retorts, “Really proves your age, that does; almost the equivalent of ‘I know you are, but what am I?’”

One huge hand slams flat to the door beside Dolph’s head, the other wrapping tight into his mostly-dry hair, tugging his head back harshly, and a shiver runs down Dolph’s spine, not at all unpleasant.

“We’ll see just exactly what you think when I’m done with you.”


	43. Baylor #15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from [this post](http://welcometothemeatshack.tumblr.com/post/180244604322/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a/).

**_15\. …passionately._ **

Finn laughs, accepting the friendly pat on his shoulder from Seth, high on their win for the night, and bids him a good night as he heads off toward Roman, leaving Finn alone in the hallway. He rolls his shoulder, testing for anything abnormal, and can’t help but be relieved when it’s only the standard soreness and tired muscles.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming back tonight!” A small hand gently slaps at his left bicep and Finn grins when he turns to see Bayley, ponytail askew, beautiful eyes bright. “You didn’t say _anything_ and now you’re here and you _won_ your first match back and I _can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were coming back tonight_!” It’s all said in a rush, in one breath, and Finn is still processing it when she throws her arms around his neck and leans into him.

Their lips crash together, Bayley’s teeth glancing his bottom lip before she rights herself and then her tongue is tracing the seam of his lips and, _god_ , it’s been so long since they’ve seen each other, Finn realizes, his arms wrapping around her waist, his lips moving against hers, heart beating fast.

Finally, she retreats, breathing a little hard and giggling, and Finn can’t help but to grin right back at her, even as she pushes at his good arm once again, making him laugh as she says again, disbelief coloring her words even as she laughs. “I can’t _believe_ you didn’t tell me.”


	44. Rolleigns, tickle

Roman frowns, brow furrowing, not even bothering to open his eyes as he commands, “Don’t do that.”

A soft chuckle from Seth is the only response for a few moments, except for the feather-light feeling of the ends of his hair trailing over Roman’s abdomen for the second time, until he replies, humor in his voice, “Why, does it _**tickle**_ , Roman?”

“You know it _does_ , you brat.”

Seth cackles now - the full-on Waluigi laugh that so many make fun of - and Roman opens his eyes to take in the brightness of Seth’s own, the softness at the corners of his lips, the _happiness_ that had been absent for so long while he was with The Authority; his heart breaks a little, then stitches back together when Seth’s beautiful eyes focus on him, laugh fading slowly.

Roman forgets what he was going to add, choosing instead to cup one scruffy cheek, thumb running along the line of the cheekbone, and brings Seth in for a kiss, the loose hair cascading around them, putting them in their own world of just the two of them, together.


	45. Adam Cole/Seth Rollins (Setham), tulips

The **tulips** are _beautiful_ , bursts of deep crimson splashed over a white backdrop; Seth is both charmed and exasperated at them, rolling his eyes a little too fondly as he picks up the card attached.

A squeal behind him nearly makes him groan, but Bayley begins gushing before Seth can stop her, excitedly inquiring, “Who are they from?” 

Seth sighs and quickly slides the card in his back pocket, refusing to let her snatch it away, a fond smile on his lips as he asks, “Don’t you have anything better to do than nose into my business?” 

Bayley laughs and swats him on the shoulder, telling him that she’ll find out _one way or another_ before heading off to her own locker room (why she was in his in the first place, he has no clue); Seth takes the card out of his pocket, turns it over to read the messy script, shaking his head even as his heart quickens. 

_See you soon, bay bay. -A_


	46. Setham (Adam/Seth), fluffy

Adam wakes abruptly, hair _that does not belong to him_ in his mouth, all over his face, strands in his scruff, and brings his hand up, brushing it away just short of violently; the body in front of him jerks, a sound of discontent sounding out in the bedroom.

“Your hair so goddamn _**fluffy**_ ,” Adam finally manages to say, hair gone from his mouth, and pushes the thick mass to the side, beneath Seth’s head, shifting to tuck his chin into the curve of the other man’s neck; he glimpses the tulips he’d sent Seth a couple of days ago sitting in a vase on the nightstand and can’t control the smile that spreads across his lips.

“S’not my fault,” Seth protests, curling a little tighter into himself, pressing back into the curve of Adam’s body.

Adam hums and presses a soft kiss to Seth’s shoulder.

“You’re lucky you’re hot, is all I can say,” he teases, smiling when Seth’s body shakes with laughter.


	47. Setham (Adam/Seth), proud

Seth winces at Adam’s grunt of pain as he finishes the wrappings around the other man’s ribcage; Aleister had really done a number on him tonight, the various aches and welts and darkening bruises telling a painful story.

“Pretty sure you should be focusing on your strategy for your tag match tomorrow- well, tonight - instead of taping me up after an ass-kicking.”

Seth’s eyes snap up to Adam’s face, the self-depreciating humor there (and that’s usually a look on _Seth_ , not Adam), and says, “Shut up and let me be **proud** of how well you took the ass-kicking.”

Adam throws his head back and laughs, groaning when it sends a rush of pain through his body, telling Seth, “Don’t make me laugh, asshole.”

Smiling, Seth continues wrapping Adam’s ribs, careful not to hit too many sore spots, and offers a massage and Advil in the morning.


	48. Rolleigns, gorgeous

“Wake up.”

Seth groans, tossing his head, trying to block out the sunlight and the gentle voice and the insistent hand on his shoulder, mumbling out an approximation of _go away_ , gaining nothing but a soft laugh and another shake.

“It’s nearly six, babe; we should’ve been on the road half an hour ago,” Roman tells him; Seth whines like a child on a school morning and opens his eyes - and _wow_.

The sunlight is shining through the glass balcony doors behind Roman, blinding Seth momentary, Roman a dark silhouette against the brightness, dark hair still damp, curls flowing down over his shoulders; he’s **_gorgeous_** and Seth says as much, slow and sleepy, awed.

Roman leans down and presses his lips to Seth’s, a soft smile meeting Seth’s slack mouth, murmuring a quiet _thank you_ before he adds, “You still have to get up, no matter how many compliments you pay me,” patting Seth’s cheek and chuckling when he pouts.


	49. Breezango, beautiful

Tyler has been told he’s **beautiful** countless times, by fans and his mother and past lovers, so being beautiful has never been something he’s doubted, could never have been with the almost constant assurance - and he doesn’t take them for granted, all the positive words, but it’s… upsetting, only ever being called one thing, as if he isn’t good enough to be anything else (polite, kind-hearted, a friend); Fandango, though-

“You’re wonderful,” Fandango tells him when he hasn’t showered, when his hair is a mess, when he’s being rude and snapping.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says when Breeze is goofy, when he hops on Fandango after a win, when he burns the eggs in the morning and scowls as he dumps them into the garbage.

“My love,” Fandango calls him, every night, no matter how many little arguments Tyler has picked during the day, no matter how annoyed they get at each other, no matter how frustrated he is with Breeze.

So many call him _beautiful_ , but none make Tyler Breeze _feel_ as beautiful, inside and out, as Fandango.


	50. Rolleigns, shoulders

“You carry way too much on your **shoulders** ,” Seth tells Roman, fingers kneading the tense muscles of Roman’s back; they’ve just gotten out the shower, but the hot water had done almost nothing for the tension in Roman’s body, the pain leftover from his match with Lesnar.

Roman grunts as Seth hits a particularly sore spot, dexterous fingertips gentling in apology once they work the knot from the muscle, and mumbles into his crossed arms, “Says the man who once claimed his knee gave out from carrying the entire company on his back.”

Roman feels Seth’s laugh vibrate through his body, hears the soft snort, and can’t help but to smile.

“That’s neither here nor there, Big Dog,” Seth tells him, palms rocking on his spine, drawing a moan from Roman; he tags on an amused, “Now shut up and relax.”

Humming, Roman closes his eyes and focuses only on the warm weight of Seth.


	51. McReigns, snort

“Why the hell did you interfere in _my_ match?”

Roman breathes out a **snort** , putting his hair up in a loose bun, replying, “What, so Ziggler is the only one allowed to interfere - or is it only okay if someone is helping _you_ win, since you know you stand no chance against Seth, by yourself?”

He turns around to his locker, then grunts when he’s shoved forward, immediately facing McIntyre and shoving him back; they face off, both glaring at the other, until the Scot cracks a little smirk.

“Alright, then,” he says, stepping back, hands up in the universal ‘surrender’ gesture, telling Roman, “Next week, then, _big dog_ ; you and me, no interference.”

“If you’re that eager to get your ass beaten,” Roman shrugs, Drew barking out a laugh before he turns and walks away, Roman’s eyes on him the entire time.


	52. Samoa Joe/Finn Balor (sambalor), SFW, towel

Joe walks into the locker room, **towel** slung over his shoulder, a scowl on his face, bad temper evident; Finn follows, NXT title around his waist, smirk smug on his lips.

Joe paces the length of the room, little bits of tension escaping after every trip, before he stops and whirls to face Finn.

“Don’t think I’m not comin’ after that title again,” Joe says, glaring, poking Finn in the center of his chest.

They’re close enough to breathe the same air, and Finn feels that familiar surge of attraction, of _need_ \- but they don’t have time right now, so instead-

Finn laughs brightly, stepping closer, blue eyes shining as he replies, “I wouldn’t expect anythin’ less.”


	53. Setham (Adam/Seth) #46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from [this post](http://welcometothemeatshack.tumblr.com/post/180244604322/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a/).

_**46\. …out of envy or jealousy.** _

Adam can’t help but stare (more a _glare_ , really, but that’s neither here nor there) at the way Finn touches Seth - so _casually_ , as if he’s done it countless times before; the thing of it is that Adam _knows _he has because Seth was very open about his _friends with benefits_ situation with Bálor when he and Adam began their own. Since then, however, things have gotten slightly more- Adam feels strange saying _serious_ , but he supposes that’s the word he needs to describe their… relationship? God, Adam has no idea how long it’s been since he’s been in one of those, but here he is.__

____

____

_Here he is_ , watching the Irishman’s fingertips trail over the line of Seth’s shoulders, _lingering_ as though they have the right- 

-and Adam tries to stop that thought in its track, but all he can think is _Seth is mine_ and the words won’t stop flashing in his mind, possessive and jealous, and he hates himself a little for it. He finally gives in and walks toward them, catching snatches of _a great match_ and _you always know how to keep all eyes on you_ , and he grips his belt a little tighter, annoyance at Finn rising as he approaches, standing next to Seth, who grins widely, that little gap between his teeth front-and-center and kind of adorable (but no one heard that from him). 

Seth’s body is a warm comfort beside his own, Seth’s arm against his as he continues his conversation with Finn, who has (finally) stopped touching Seth. Adam doesn’t really take in much that is said until the end, when the two embrace and Finn asks, “We’re still on for dinner tomorrow night, yeah, love?" 

There’s a faint buzzing noise in Adam’s ears, so he almost doesn’t catch the enthusiastic _absolutely_ Seth offers in return (but he _does_ and, _wow_ , Adam feels an ugly sort of tension creeping up his spine, tendrils of it all curling around sinew and bone and filling all the spaces that are left, and he doesn’t like it _one bit_ ). Bálor gives Adam a sort of half-nod, an almost _knowing_ smile (Adam searches for any trace of malice or triumph, but only finds understanding and humor) and flits off down the hall, most likely to catering, leaving Adam alone with Seth. 

“You good?” Seth is looking at him, but Adam’s too busy trying to tamp down the unfamiliar feeling suffocating him to answer; he startles when Seth snags his wrist, a concerned look in his pretty eyes, and tugs him along down the hallway, in the opposite direction Bálor had gone, until they reach a door to a vacant locker room and he shoves it open, pulling Adam in behind him and shutting the door. “So,” Seth begins. “You gonna tell me what’s up?” 

“I didn’t know you still have dinner with Bálor.” It’s out before he can stop it and, once again, he feels disgusting because Seth doesn’t _belong_ to him, but that dark trail of- of _whatever_ this is, is frantic, is clawing at his throat and his lungs to escape. 

Seth gives him a funny look, sort of bemused, and replies, “Well, yeah. I mean, we were friends before we were anything else. What the hell does that-” He stops abruptly, another strange look coming over his face, more amused than confused this time. “Wait, are you-” Seth laughs, short and breathy. “Are you _jealous_?” 

Those jagged claws finally win and the nagging feeling bursts out of Adam and his lips are on Seth’s, teeth catching each other’s painfully before Adam gets his hand in Seth’s hair, tugging his head to the side, angling him perfectly for a real kiss, another laugh coming from Seth as his hands come up to cup Adam’s jaw, thumbs running along the scruff on Adam’s face. 

When the kiss ends, Seth is smiling, panting softly, beautiful doe eyes hidden under his lashes, and the dark feeling ( _is it_ really _jealousy_ , he wonders) recedes just enough for him to _breathe_ now. 

“You’re kind of an idiot,” huffs Seth, brown eyes shining with laughter once he opens them, and Adam agrees (just a little), leaning in for another kiss, softer this time, the _jealousy_ cooling off the more Seth responds to him, the monster satisfied and silent. 


	54. Setham (Adam/Seth) #22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from [this post](http://welcometothemeatshack.tumblr.com/post/180244604322/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a/).

**_22\. …in a rush of adrenaline._ **

Adam watches the monitor, the NXT North American Championship on the seat next to him, his palm over the gold face, that feeling of pride from the night before still swirling in his bones.

Seth’s music hits, the entire Superdome screaming the signature _burn it down_ , and Seth appears, electric blue contacts in place, White Walker attire ( _what a nerd_ , Adam thinks fondly) fitting him perfectly.

It’s an action-packed match, with Miz somehow having the upper hand more often than not. Adam winces when Bálor hits a dropkick directly to Seth, knocking him back into Miz, sending them both into the barricade. Adam bites into his cheek when Seth eats the mat with Miz’s finisher, then with a bulldog, clenches his fist when Miz gets a cover that is _too close_ before Bálor breaks it up-

-and then Seth _stomps_ him into Miz, then puts Miz into the mat, and _Seth is a Grand Slam Champion_ and that proud feeling swells a little higher.

Miz comes through with a sort of dumbfounded look on his face, Bálor following after looking (expectedly) defeated and (unexpectedly) a little amused, and then Seth is coming through the curtain, white belt around his waist, and he’s rushing to Adam, still sitting, a big grin on his face, and his lips are on Adam’s before Adam really knows what’s happening (but he leans in, happily).

Seth’s lips spread into a smile against his, a breath of excited laughter - that laughter that shows that the adrenaline rush is slowing now, heart calming - and he says, happiness evident, “I won.”

Adam just laughs and lifts his belt, touching it to Seth’s, gold on gold.


	55. Ballins #21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from [this post](http://welcometothemeatshack.tumblr.com/post/180244604322/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a/).

**_21\. …on a place of insecurity._ **

Seth walks into the bathroom, shimmying out his tight jeans, shaking his leg to free his foot from them; he sheds his briefs, kicking them back toward his pants, and walks up to Finn, staring into the mirror above the vanity, glass slightly fogged from the water running in the bath. He wraps his arms low around Finn’s bare hips, resting his chin on Finn’s right shoulder, just above the line of his scar. “You’re still pretty,” he teases. “There’s no need to ask the mirror who the _fairest of them all_ is.”

Finn’s lips tug into a soft smile. “That’d be you, though, love. Those eyes,” he adds, putting one hand on top of Seth’s arm, leaning back into him. His own eyes (blue, so blue) flick to Seth’s in the glass for a quick moment before returning to stare at himself, a slight frown on his face.

“It’s your birthday,” says Seth, laying a kiss on the very tip on the surgical scar. “What’s got you so down, suddenly? I thought we were taking a bath.” He tries to say it all lightly, so Finn doesn’t feel like he _has_ to explain, but he doesn’t think he accomplishes it.

There’s a tightening of Finn’s jaw, swift as a sparrow’s flight, and Finn looks like he’s going to avoid the question for a moment, but then he relaxes further back against Seth’s nude body, tips his head to press his temple to Seth’s, eyes on them both now. “I’m nearly forty,” he finally says, and his voice is quiet, soft and _insecure_ , and Seth isn’t used to Finn being the one who needs reassurance about _anything_ , so he’s thrown.

“You’re only thirty-seven,” Seth blurts out uselessly. “I’m thirty-two.”

In the mirror, Finn’s lips quirk, a sign of reluctant amusement. “I’m aware of our ages, love, thank you.”

Seth is a little baffled. “I don’t get it.”

Finn sighs. “I’m nearly forty,” he repeats. “I’m getting older and new wrestlers just keep getting younger.” He lifts his hand from Seth’s arm, nudges his index finger to the corner of his eye. “My sister told me earlier that I’m getting _crow’s feet_.”

There’s a small laugh ready to choke out of Seth’s throat, but he refuses to let it pass, understanding that this is a sensitive subject right now. “Your sister likes to tease you,” he says. “Crow’s feet doesn’t mean anything about age, really.” Seth turns his head, lets his lips touch the corner of Finn’s eye, right where Finn had touched just seconds earlier. “Besides, the wrestlers are getting younger because they have more opportunities now than even we did; they’re learning from legends and getting in on those names, alone - which isn’t to say that they aren’t talented - or Hunter’s seen something ‘special’ in them, same as he did you and me, and they’ve just managed to get called up sooner, thanks to NXT.”

Finn’s got that soft smile again as he stares at Seth in the mirror, the one that means Seth has said something that’s touched Finn, that’s surprised him just a little, and Seth ducks his head into Finn’s neck to hide from it. Finn’s hand goes back to Seth’s arm, still around his waist, fingertips trailing softly over the skin, nails scratching gently.

Seth feels a touch to his temple, the light pressure of lips to skin, and looks up when they retreat, meeting Finn’s blue eyes, seeing the almost-invisible lines stretching out from the corners and loving every bit of them.

“Let’s take that bath, love.”


	56. Ballins #8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from [this post](http://welcometothemeatshack.tumblr.com/post/180244604322/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a/).

**_8\. …in secrecy._ **

“I’m not gonna end up on some episode of _Unsolved Mysteries_ , am i?” Finn asks as he steps into the dark hotel room, the only light coming from the moon shining through the balcony doors. He closes the door behind him, leaning back against it, arms crossing over his chest, a small smirk on his lips.

Seth rolls his eyes. “That show’s been off for years.” He shoves up from the foot of the bed, crossing the room to Finn. “Where’ve you been?” he asks, frowning. “You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.”

Finn shrugs. “A few fans were in my hallway and then in the elevator; I had to wait for them to go, then come back up.” He uncrosses his arms, settles his hands on Seth’s sides as he gets close and puts his own hands on either side of Finn’s head on the door, closing him in. “Did you miss me so much, love?” he teases, smoothing his hands up and down.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Nevertheless, Seth leans in and nudges his nose along the line of the Irishman’s jaw. “Don’t know why we’ve gotta do this; fans know about kayfabe and people have seen us together before.” His beard brushes pleasantly against Finn’s when he rubs their cheeks together, almost like a kitten.

“We’re supposed to be feuding over the Universal title; it wouldn’t do to be seen all over each other.”

Seth huffs. “Shut up.” He pulls back, forearms still bracketing Finn’s head. “I’ll be glad when it’s done.”

Finn hums and brings a hand up to cup Seth’s cheek. “Only a month left; give it a few weeks to cool down, then we’re free and clear.”

Their lips brush, gentle and brief.

“Can’t wait.”


	57. Joestafa (Samoa Joe/Mustafa Ali): bakery meet au

“You’re staring again. It’s getting creepy, man.”

Mustafa scowls at his best friend, snatching up his coffee, hissing when some of it sloshes over the rim and burns his hand. He sets it back down, carefully, snagging some napkins from the dispenser on their table, wiping his hand. “I didn’t ask your opinion, Ced,” he finally replies, eyes cutting to the dark-skinned man. “For the record, I  _ wasn’t _ staring.”

Cedric’s expression is one of pure incredulity. “Right. Your attention didn’t automatically turn to him, as soon as you heard him ordering with Finn.”

Best friends,  _ partners _ \- they aren’t supposed to call a man out like this, are they? “I wasn’t  _ staring _ .”

“You know he’s friends with Finn,” Cedric persists. Mustafa simply raises one dark eyebrow.  _ What does that have to do with anything? _ Yes, Mustafa knows that; he and Cedric come to  _ Balor’s Bakery _ every morning before they head to the station (they’ve become the stereotypical cops within less than two years of being on the force, eating baked goods and drinking coffee as though their lives depend upon it) and, every morning, the same man walks in, always wearing a shirt with the  _ Joe’s _ logo, a gym just down the street. Keen cop instincts tell Mustafa that he’s probably an employee there; all his police academy time and training hasn’t failed him yet, so he’s inclined to believe those instincts. He walks in, sort of swaggering (Cedric hated him on sight, for that alone), and orders from Finn, the bakery’s proprietor, then stays for a while, joking and talking; sometimes, he’s gone before Mustafa and Cedric have to leave, but most of the time, he’s still there. (Sometimes, Mustafa thinks he feels eyes on his back as they leave.) “Man, come  _ on _ .” Cedric shakes his head, eyes rolling heavenward in a  _ why me _ fashion. “Ask Finn about the guy!”

Mustafa’s own eyes roll as he says, “We’re not in the  _ third grade _ anymore, Ced.”

A scoff is his response. “Fine. Keep pining. Not my problem.”

“I am  _ not _ -“

“Here you are!” A small dish is plopped on the table in front of Mustafa, a twin to the chocolate croissant Mustafa had already demolished resting on it, Finn’s hand swiping up the previous saucer. Mustafa looks between the pastry and Finn, confused.

“I didn’t-“

“Hey!” Cedric interjects, offended. “Where’s mine?” He gestures at his own dish, scarce remnants of his danish scattered over it.

Finn deadpans, “You didn’t order one,” then grins at Mustafa, handing him a small card - a business card? “Joe says he thinks the passing of a business card is more grown than that third grade standard; his personal number’s on the back there.”

Joe? Mustafa thinks for only a moment before it clicks.  _ The shirts.  _ Horror sets in. “He  _ heard- _ “

“There are  _ literally  _ three customers in here, this very moment, love.” Finn’s smirk is much too wide. “Neither of you know how to use your ‘inside voices’.” Mustafa can only stare; Cedric continues to scowl at his empty plate. Finn says, “Anyway. Joe had to go open the gym; also, he didn’t want to put any sort of pressure on you, so he used me as his delivery system.” He gestures at the card and the croissant. “Give him a ring, lad; he’d like the chance to stare at you, as well.” With that, the bakery owner strides away.

“Unbelievable,” Cedric mutters. Mustafa doesn’t spare him a glance, too focused on the surprisingly neat handwriting on the back of the card. “You get a love connection and a phone number. I can’t even get another goddamn danish.”


	58. Rollintyre: coffee shop au

Work is the last place Seth wants to be, truthfully, and the  _ entire  _ reason is standing on the other side of the counter. Bayley (henceforth known as:  _ The Traitor _ ) has abandoned him, escaping into the back to “make more biscuits, boss man” as soon as this asshole’s shadow darkened his shop’s doorstep.

Said asshole, as always, is dressed to the nines in dark slacks, creased perfectly over shiny shoes and as black as the night sky on a moonless night, with a lavender button-up that  _ somehow _ makes his uniquely shaded eyes stand out  _ even more,  _ undone at his collar and showing a bit of dark chest hair that makes Seth want to  _ scream _ .  _ As always, _ he has his phone in hand, completely ignoring Seth, as per usual.

Seth has been in the customer service gig for years, since he’d turned sixteen and gotten his license, his mother telling him that she’d fill his gas tank for the first month, until he got his own job and could pay for it himself. That first job in the little community diner, three hours every day after school and six on Saturdays, would give Seth the people and conflict resolution skills he would need in his next three jobs; he’d opened up his humble little shop just last year and, while he’s had a few disgruntled patrons in that time, Seth has never felt the urge to punch any of them in the face-

-until this asshole stepped through the door, three months ago.

It’s not even that he’s  _ rude _ \- in fact, he never says  _ anything, _ except his order, and he usually leaves a generous tip, sometimes more than the drink even costs; no, he’s simply a  _ dick.  _

The first three weeks, the man ordered only plain black coffee, every day he’d come in; naturally, Seth assumed it was his regular preference and, the next time the man came up to the register, Seth began making the same. The man  _ watched _ him pour the coffee,  _ watched _ Seth set it on the counter for him,  _ watched _ him ring it up, then said, a smirk spreading over his distressingly plump lips surrounded by midnight-black facial hair, Scottish accent making Seth’s knees a little weak, “I think I’ll go with a chai latte today.”

Since then, he’s been in three times a week, every week, and orders increasingly obnoxious drinks every time, always seeming to laugh at Seth’s tight smile as he punches in the order and begins to make it.

Seth  _ loathes _ him.

Finally, Blue-Eyed Asshole (it’s a working name, okay, Seth has never claimed to be creative; he hadn’t even named his own coffee shop -  _ The Traitor _ had) looks up from his phone, familiar smirk in place, and Seth sort of  _ snaps. _

“What’ll it be today?” he asks with an eye roll. “Another triple, venti, half-sweet, non-fat caramel macchiato? Decaf, soy latte with an extra shot and cream? A tall, half-caff soy latte at  _ exactly _ one hundred twenty degrees?” His hands flail a little wildly as he lists off the ridiculous orders.

One well-groomed, black eyebrow quirks. “Well,” comes the Scottish drawl. “I thought you’d never call me out.”

Seth stares.  _ “What?” _

A muscled arm (god, Seth can  _ see _ the muscle definition, even with the shirt) moves in a sort of half-shrug, his lips twitching. “I don’t like any of those drinks.”

Seth feels like screaming. Through gritted teeth, as politely as possible, he asks, “Then  _ why _ do you order them? What do you even  _ do _ with them?”

A deep, rumbling laugh drifts through the air. “Most go to my daytime manager, Sasha; she’s become a fan, by the way. As for why-“ His face breaks into an honest, genuine smile, and Seth feels his brain short out for a moment until- “I discovered that you’re even  _ more _ attractive when you look like you want to throw my drink in my face.”

Insane. “You’re an  _ asshole _ ,” is all Seth can say.

Another shrug. “I’ve been informed.” In a blink, he leans over the counter and reaches for Seth’s pen, just behind his ear, fingers drawing back slowly, brushing gently over Seth’s heated skin. Another blink, and he’s back in place, Seth’s stolen pen in one hand, the other reaching into his back pocket for his wallet; he pulls out a small, rectangular card and lays it on the counter before writing numbers and a name on the back.  _ Drew. _

When he’s finished, he slides the card and Seth’s pen over to him, flashing a smile. He says, a laugh in his voice, “Perhaps we could go out for coffee, some day,” and Seth’s lips twitch despite himself. With a handful of smooth movements,  _ Drew _ withdraws a twenty dollar bill from his wallet and deposits it into the tip jar before he turns and leaves.

As the door closes, Seth hears movement behind him. “About time,”  _ The Traitor _ says. “You’d better call him.”

Seth scoffs and snatches the card up, replacing his pen behind his ear. “I’m throwing it away.”

(He doesn’t.)


	59. Rollintyre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from an angsty/suggestive sentence prompt post.

“ **I’m sick of being the other guy** ,” is the first thing Drew hears when he steps out of the shower.

“What the hell are you on about?” He snatches the towel from the towel rack, patting his face and chest dry before wrapping it around his waist and snagging another to do the same to his hair.

“You _heard_ me.” Seth’s hair looks like more of a tangled mass than when Drew had left him in bed, maybe an hour ago, as if he’s been running his hands through his hair the entire time; he looks _distraught_. “I don’t want to be that- this _person_ anymore.”

Drew sighs. “What ‘person’ is that?” He steps over to the sink counter, grabs his brush and begins the process of his nightly routine, brushing out the few tangles he encounters.

Seth’s hands are flying, gesticulating wildly. “The person who lets someone else’s guy fuck them, _that_ person!” His brown eyes (deep and dark and captivating; they’re the second attribute that had drawn Drew to the younger man - Seth had been facing away from him in the bar that night and, _goddamn,_ the ass on him) are wide, distressed. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

That drags Drew’s attention from the mirror, turns him around to face the other man. “All right,” he says, throwing up his hands, leaning back against the counter. “What the fuck are you taking about?”

“The _picture_ ,” exclaims Seth, and he looks- He looks too emotional for Drew to handle, honestly, but-

Calmly, Drew asks, “What picture, Seth?”

“The one of you and the girl, on your bookshelf! You’re kissing her cheek! I saw it last time, when you first invited me here. I can’t- I don’t want to be the other guy.”

Drew laughs, loud and sudden, unable to stop it, and he sees Seth glare at him, eyes narrowed and furious. “Seth, love-”

“Don’t call me that.”

Drew holds out his hands in surrender, still chuckling. “Fine, fine. _Seth,_ do you honestly believe I would be fool enough not to take down any photos of a significant other I have around?” One thick eyebrow lifts high, his lips quirking into a smirk as Seth’s part. Before he can say anything, Drew tells him, “Her name is Nikki - my sister.”

Silence.

“She’s a menace; enjoys shouting at everything, bloody cackling at nothing, and annoying her brother into taking photos with her.”

More silence, then- “Your sister.” Smirking, Drew nods and hims. Seth’s cheeks are a little darker than usual, the tips of his ears red, and his hair seems to be fluffier than before. His eyes dart down, his expression embarrassed, one hand coming up to rub sheepishly at the back of his neck. “Your sister.”

“My sister; I’m happy we’ve established that.”

Seth scowls. “You don’t have to be an ass about it.”

“You’re the one who’s assumed, for the last two weeks, that I’ve a girlfriend and you’re my ‘side piece’. I believe I have the higher ground on this one, love.” Water is dripping down Drew’s back, so he throws the towel around his neck. “Are we done with this now?” He gestures at the space between them. Seth only glares again, making him sigh. “Christ.” Taking a step forward, Drew grips one of Seth’s wrists, tugging him close; Seth’s eyes stay averted, but his expression goes defiant. “Seth, look at me.” Nothing; Drew lifts his free hand, cupping Seth’s jaw, directing his gaze to Drew’s, mahogany meeting the ocean. “That was quite a reaction.”

Seth’s jaw tightens. “I thought you were cheating on someone with me and putting me into a role I’ve never wanted to be in. No shit.”

Drew snorts. _Sassy today,_ he thinks. “You are the only person I’m currently fucking.” It’s crude, just a bit, but the smaller man’s eyes light up, a small smile curling his lips.

“The only person?” he asks, making certain.

“The only.”


	60. Setham (Adam/Seth) #31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from a kiss prompt post.

**_31\. …after a small rejection._ **

“It’s a great opportunity,” Seth is gushing, grinning, hands waving in his excitement. “You’ll be on the main roster, and we’ll have more time togeth-”

“I’m not going to the main roster.”

Seth freezes, hands in midair; if he didn’t look heartbroken, Adam would find it hilarious - as it is, though…

“Oh.” Seth slowly lowers his arms, placing them primly over his thighs (as prim as one can be with only a sheet covering one’s legs, bare from the waist up). “Oh. I thought you- I thought you’d want to-”

Adam snags Seth’s left hand from atop the bedsheet, tugging until Seth relents and leans into him, lets him press their lips together, gentle and slow and apologetic. He pulls back, but keeps his hold on Seth’s hand, tangling their fingers together. his thumb brushing back and forth over the outside of Seth’s. “It’s not,” begins Adam, “that I wouldn’t like to be able to see you more.” He heaves a sigh, his free hand shoving his hair out of his face. “I’ve got to think of my career, too, though.” Seth swallows, but he doesn’t say anything or look upset that Adam’s said it - not that Adam had expected him to be selfish in this, to forget that Adam has a career, too, and demand he move to the ‘big stage’. “You’ve seen how many of the guys have gone to the main roster, just to be forgotten. Look at Bálor,” says Adam, and Seth frowns. “Don’t give me that look. He’s been on Raw for nearly three years and he’s been stuck with shit booking because the old man has a hard-on for guys like Strowman and Lashley and Lesnar.”

“You don’t know that you’ll-”

“-have the same bad luck?” finishes Adam. “The guys and I talked about it: The odds of us, as a unit, being booked the way we are at NXT? Practically nil. Look at Sanity,” he adds, a little desperately. Seth’s eyes (and, god, they’re something else, aren’t they?) are staring at him, a bit sad, slightly wet.

Finally, Seth takes a breath, says, “Yeah, I know,” and Adam can feel the tight knot that had begun to form in his chest moments ago unravel. Seth leans fully into him now, resting his chin on Adam’s shoulder. “I get it.”

Adam closes his eyes, settles back more comfortably against the pillow, feels Seth readjust with him. “Eventually,” he tells Seth. “When there’s reason to be confident in the old man’s promises of good booking or when Hunter takes over.”

Seth nods, his beard scratching against Adam’s chest. “Yeah.” He throws his arm over Adam’s hip, puts one thigh over Adam’s. “Until then-”

“This is good.”


	61. Seth/Drew/Roman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from an angsty/suggestive sentence prompt post.

“ **I’m not saying I _want_ a threesome - but I wouldn’t be opposed to it**,” Seth mumbles into Roman’s neck, eyes closed. Roman’s arm tightens around his back. “Don’t be mad or jealous or whatever. It’s just something I haven’t done before, and you _did_ ask.”

Roman’s deep chuckle makes him smile. “I’m not mad - curious, but not angry.” His fingers dance up Seth’s side, sending a shiver up the younger man’s spine, goosebumps rising. “Who, exactly, would you be interested in, hm? Dean? Finn?”

“McIntyre,” blurts Seth. Roman’s fingers freeze, and Seth puts his nose further into the curve of Roman’s neck.

“ _McIntyre_.”

Seth sighs and props himself up on one elbow, resting his other hand just over Roman’s heart. “Don’t start with me.”

Roman’s not even bothering to hide his grin. “I’m not starting anything,” he says, teeth flashing as he laughs. “It’s just… _interesting_ that you’d choose him.”

“Oh?” Seth shifts, moves to straddle Roman’s hips, a mirror of their position from barely half an hour before. “Why’s it _interesting_?”

Hands settling on Seth’s thighs, Roman squeezes gently. “It’s _interesting_ ,” he teases, “that you’d pick someone else who can toss you around as easily as I can.”

Seth rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t shame me.”

A deep chuckle, that rumbling sound from deep within Roman’s chest, sounds through the room. “No one is shaming you.” His own eyes roll, a fond smile on his lips, and his nails scratch gently over Seth’s thighs. “C’mere.” The older man bucks his hips, the sudden movement knocking Seth off-balance, forcing him to catch himself with his hands on the pillow behind Roman’s head; he scowls and goes to sit back up, but Roman’s big hands grip his waist and refuse to allow it. They travel up and down Seth’s sides, large and warm comforts. “You’d like that, huh? McIntyre working with me to take you apart?” One hand comes up to cup Seth’s bearded jaw, tilts his head to give him access to Seth’s ear, licking up the shell of it, nipping lightly. It’s too soon for Seth to get hard again, but he feels that stirring feeling, low in his belly. “You want to get on your knees for him, baby? Or let him fuck you, with my cock in your mouth, hm?” Seth whimpers, big brown eyes closing, as if to shut away the images Roman is projecting. “Just say the word, sweetheart.”

Seth’s mouth is dry, but he manages to swallow, the sound loud in the silence around them. “Actually,” he finally gets out, flicking his tongue out to lick ineffectually at his lips, eyes opening to stare down into Roman’s. Trying again, Seth says, “Actually, I was thinking I could watch _him_ fuck _you_ and- and you could eat me out while he did.” His pulse is jumping, and he thinks he feels Roman’s heart do the same.

Finally, Roman releases a slightly shaky breath. “Well,” he breathes. “I think- Maybe we’ll check out the possibility, some day.”

“Yeah?” Seth’s own breath stops.

“Mm,” murmurs Roman and connects his lips to Seth’s, licking his way into the warm mouth. “Yeah.”


	62. Joestafa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from an angsty/suggestive sentence prompt post.

Joe has his hands wrapped around Mustafa’s thighs, fingers holding tight, keeping Mustafa pressed firmly between the wall and Joe’s own body, his lips moving in tandem with Mustafa’s, hips rolling hard and slow; one hand drifts up from Mustafa’s thigh, slides over his still-clothed chest, slips loosely around his neck, and Mustafa can’t-

“Stop,” he mumbles into the kiss. “Stop.”

The repetition isn’t necessary; Joe freezes the moment Mustafa says the word, then slowly draws back, hand gone from his neck, setting the younger man carefully on his feet and taking three steps back, chest rising and falling a little heavier than usual, his tongue flicking out to lick at his lips, their combined saliva still shining. He’s staring at Mustafa, who is busy trying to compose himself, and his body is otherwise very still, _tense._ “Everything alright?” he questions, unblinking, brow furrowed.

“No,” replies Mustafa, eyes closing, hands running frantically through his hair, tugging at the strands. His mind is fogged, a haze cloaking his thoughts, and he’s- He can’t _think._

Joe is silent, unmoving; Mustafa can still feel the older man’s gaze on him.

Mustafa struggles to speak, eyes still shut, one hand gesturing vaguely in front of him. “I don’t- I can’t-”

Joe’s silence is broken. “Don’t worry about it,” he tells Mustafa. “It’s my fault for assuming. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Confused, Mustafa opens his eyes, finding Joe’s. The older man looks pained, _guilty,_ and it’s a strange sight to Mustafa. _Why does he look like that?_ “I don’t-” He doesn’t understand.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” Joe repeats, still staring at Mustafa with that guilty expression. “I should’ve discussed it with you, again.” His voice is a little strained as he admits, “I got lost in the moment, which is never a good thing where any sort of play is concerned; I’m sorry.”

There’s a small moment of clarity. “You’re talking about your hand on my throat?”

A quirk of an eyebrow is his response. _What else would I be talking about?_

“No, it’s- That’s-” Flailing his hands, Mustafa says, “That was- No, I like that. That’s always good; everything with you is good.”

Joe’s lips crook into a small smile. “Don’t say ‘always’,” Joe says. “You may change your mind, one day, which is why I should have asked you if it was alright.” He relaxes a little, body becoming less tense than before. “What was the issue, then?” Joe doesn’t sound angry or frustrated or annoyed, the way most people would - only curious.

Mustafa’s hands return to his hair, a low heat filling his face. “It just- It was a lot at once, the way you were holding me and moving and then your hand-” He pauses, takes a breath and loses it as he blurts, “ **You make me nervous and happy and horny, all at the same time, and it’s confusing as fuck, sometimes**.”

Total silence, and then a bark of laughter. “High praise,” Joe chuckles, and it doesn’t sound like he’s making fun of Mustafa, so the younger man grins, relieved.

“I just needed a minute, is all.” He can’t help the way his eyes travel down Joe’s shirtless torso, the way his mouth dries a little at the evidence of Joe’s still _very_ prominent interest in possibly continuing where they left off. “I’m good now.”

Joe moves toward him, still laughing, and Mustafa goes easily into his arms.


	63. Joestafa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe saves Mustafa from a terrible date.

Alicia is one of Mustafa’s closest friends, and he _adores_ her.

He does _not_ , however, adore her taste in men - or rather, her taste in men _for him._

Damien Sandow is- Mustafa doesn’t enjoy judging anyone, but police instincts and observational skills and _just plain, common sense_ are hard to deny and ignore.

Damien Sandow is an egocentric _asshole_. Mustafa is always content to listen, to learn more about his partners - but _this_ is beyond any possibility of enjoyment for him; the man had barely asked Mustafa’s _name_ before he’d launched into his life accomplishments, not-so-subtly implying that others are _beneath_ him - that Mustafa is beneath him for being “only an officer”.

“-appalled that no one listens to the classical stuff any longer,” the other man is saying, setting his wine glass down, the red liquid sloshing gently around the sides of the glass. His voice, the put-on elegance, and his pretentious attitude have done nothing but grate on Mustafa through the entire twenty minutes he’s known the man.

 _He’s an educated man, ‘stafa! He’s traveled around the world, and he’ll be so good for you, I just know it!_ Well, Mustafa has a bone to pick with her.

“It’s all about these- what are they called? _Kardashians_ and the _housewives_ and these teeny-bopper _pop sensations_. No one takes the time to enjoy the simple, yet profound, pleasures of Mozart or Shakespeare! It’s a reflection of the mediocrity the uneducated- _excuse me!_ ”

Mustafa’s attention snaps from thoughts of covertly texting Cedric and asking for an “emergency call” at Damien’s exclamation. There’s a red stain blossoming, spreadly quickly over the pure white button-up and no doubt dripping down onto the matching slacks; his wine glass is gone, and there is a large man in a dark suit standing beside Damien.

“Sorry about that,” he apologizes, deep voice rumbling out and sending a shiver up Mustafa’s spine; his lips are quirked up in a smirk, so Mustafa doubts his sincerity very much.

“ _Sorry?_ This is a five thousand dollar suit!”

Mustafa says, cutting a glance at the still-smirking man, “It was an accident; I’m sure a dry cleaner can save it.” The red wine has soaked through the entire lower-right side of Damien’s shirt, Mustafa sees as his date stands up, as well as the upper-right thigh of his pants; his suit jacket was only spared because he had placed it on the back of his chair as they’d sat down.

“An _accident_ ,” scoffs Sandow. “Yes, I’m _certain_ that’s what it was - a clumsy moment from a-”

“You should go,” interjects Mustafa, standing as well, side-eyeing the man beside them. “If it’s that expensive, I don’t want you to wait and chance the cleaners not being able to salvage it.” He honestly has no clue about whether a dry cleaner can save a five thousand dollar suit (who needs a suit that costs _five grand?_ Mustafa’s three suits, _combined,_ cost less than five hundred dollars) from a red wine stain as large as this one.

There are people staring, the other guests in the secluded section of the restaurant curious at the disturbance; Damien notices and sniffs, turning his nose in the air and saying, “I will, yes,” snatching up his jacket and striding out of the room, a concerned waiter following him.

“Didn’t even offer you a ride home,” that deep voice comments.

Mustafa shrugs. “I got here alright; I think I can get myself home, just as well.”

A low chuckle. “Your date didn’t seem to be entertaining you.”

“He was talkative,” hedges Mustafa, reluctant to speak badly of a near-stranger to a _complete_ stranger. Frowning, Mustafa questions, “Did you knock his glass out of his hand on purpose?”

“You looked like you could use a little reprieve.”

Grimacing, Mustafa lifts his arm, sheepishly rubs the back of his neck. “It was that obvious?”

“Apparently not to him,” the big man shrugs. There’s a sly grin tugging at his mouth, heavy eyes trailing down Mustafa’s body, returning to his lips when Mustafa flicks his tongue out to wet them nervously. He checks his watch. “I’ve got somewhere I need to be,” he tells Mustafa, “but if you’re ever in the mood to have dinner with someone who won’t bore you to death before the appetizer even arrives, call the gym down the street - _Joe’s_ \- and ask for Joe.” With that, he - _Joe_ \- offers another crooked grin and walks away, Mustafa staring in bemusement after him.

(Alicia claims the credit when they ‘become official,’ two months later. Mustafa doesn’t understand her logic, but he doesn’t argue, only shakes his head and leans into Joe, a smile on his lips.)


	64. Finn Bálor/Karl Anderson (Balorson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A response to a request from an angsty/suggestive prompt post.

“ **I’m not going to break** , y’know.”

Finn chuckles, then hums quietly, running one fingertip along the line of Karl’s neck. “Oh, I think I could break you.” The bald man huffs, eyes rolling, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even struggle in his bonds, his and Finn’s ties from earlier in the night, tangled around his wrists and attached to the bed frame.

Karl scoffs. “As _if_ you could.”

The Irishman merely raises an eyebrow, taps his finger to Karl’s full lower lip, a gleam of satisfaction in his ocean eyes when the man beneath him allows it to press through into his warm mouth, the tip of a tongue flicking over it. “It really isn’t a matter of whether or not I _could,”_ he tells Karl, trailing his free hand down the center of the other man’s chest, over the muscled abdomen, ghosting over the head of the waiting erection, delighting in the sudden buck of Karl’s hips as he tries to gain more contact. “It’s the matter of how quickly you’d _beg_ for the privilege of being broken by me.”

Breathless, trying to roll his hips, groaning when he’s thwarted by Finn shifting his weight and immobilizing him, Karl grits out, “I would _not_.”

Smiling, amused and sly, Finn says, “Let’s find out, shall we?”


	65. Ambrolleigns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something that's been in my WIP docs for over two years. My feelings about this ship/the combination of these ships have changed drastically in the recent months, so I highly doubt I'll ever return to complete it. Anyone is welcome to throw a second half at it, as long as it's linked to this.

“C’mon, baby boy, that’s it. You’re _so_ good for Daddy, aren’t you?”

Seth moans, sound muffled by the thick cock in his mouth, gagging as the head pushes down his throat, a full-body spasm making him twitch on the bed. He hears a chuckle from the opposite side of the bed from where his head is hanging, feels strong hands grip his ankles tightly, pressing his feet down to the bed. Roman withdraws and pushes back in, slowly, one large hand resting heavily on Seth’s upper torso.

“Uh-uh, princess,” Dean tuts, and Seth feels lips pressed to his knee now, feels them trail up the inside of his thigh as the bed dips. Seth breathes out a long, high-pitched whine through his nose until Roman thrusts forward, cutting off his air supply. “Poor Sethie-boy,” Dean mocks lightly, a smile in his voice.

Roman chuckles above Seth, the hand on his chest stroking gently, pinching and plucking at a nipple on its way. “He’s alright,” he murmurs, the fingers of his free hand moving to grip the hair at the back of Seth’s neck _hard_ , the firm hold keeping him in place as Roman roughly fucks into his throat; thick lines of saliva are pushed out of the corners of Seth’s mouth as he struggles to gather in air, sliding down and over his cheeks, one trail running into his eye, forcing him to keep it shut. Roman directs his next words to Seth, cock still again and filling Seth’s desperately fluttering throat. “Aren’t you, baby boy?”

Calmly, despite the way his body is fighting for air, Seth raises his right hand and blindly feels for Roman’s hip. Placing it there, he deliberately taps the warm skin three times. _Yes_. Roman smooths his free hand over Seth’s throat in a gentle reward and then grips it, fingers tightening, choking Seth manually as he withdraws his cock to lay heavily against Seth’s cheek, slimy lines of spit trailing between them.  
  
“Yeah, I can see that,” comes Dean’s amused reply, an accompanying bite high on Seth’s inner thigh following. Seth whimpers, a strangled sound underneath Roman’s tight grip, and bends his knees further out to the side, trying to open his thighs even wider, but Dean digs his nails into Seth’s ankles and _bites down_ , teeth marking the sensitive skin of Seth’s left thigh. A desperate croak of sound escapes Seth, spit-slick lips wide in a breathless moan, and just as his eyes start to roll back, Roman lets up.  
  
“There you go, baby,” murmurs Roman, smoothing his palm gently over Seth’s cheek, thumbing the thick line of slimy spit out of the eye Seth has been keeping shut. “Deep, even breaths, sweetheart.” Seth’s body shudders and little stars dance in his vision, stomach heaving as he tries to listen, pulls in a deep breath before trying to let it out slowly, Roman humming in approval.  
  
Dean snorts, licking at the bite mark he’s inflicted (he’s broken skin in a couple places, and Seth is going to complain when he’s back up and aware and bratty, but Dean knows their boy likes the marks, so he’s not too concerned about it). “Let ’im up, Rome.” He gets a huff and an eye roll in response, but the big man helps Seth lift up, gently cupping the nape of their boy’s neck to prompt him into a sitting position. “There he is,” Dean murmurs, fingers sliding up Seth’s chest and neck to cup a slick cheek before going into dark curls. Dean keeps his grip loose as he leans in, bumping the tip of his nose against Seth’s to gain an airy laugh, his own lips quirking as he claims the spit-slick ones in front of him. Seth’s eyes slide shut, a soft sigh escaping him, and Dean feels like he’s high, like he’s just taken a hit of the hard shit again and Seth is the personification of the old euphoria.  
  
He feels the bed dip, his knee sliding over the mattress just slightly as Roman kneels behind Seth, big hands sliding around to lace together at the front of their boy’s body. “Hey, baby,” he hums, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin behind Seth’s ear as Dean draws back. “You okay?” Seth nods, eyes still closed, a dreamy smile playing on his lips. Roman tuts. “Rules, Seth. Give me words right now, baby.”  
  
Seth’s breathing is still a bit unsteady, still shaky, but he opens his eyes and blinks slowly as he tries to gather the words in his head. He’s struggling to put them together, Dean knows; he always loses words when he gets like this and Dean has never seen a more beautiful sight than his boy trying so hard to comply with something that is normally so simple. “’m ’kay,” Seth eventually manages, words slurring together, and Dean is _so_ irrationally proud of him (and at the way Roman’s face softens as he smiles at their boy, Dean knows it’s a shared feeling).  
  
“You did so good for Rome, princess,” Dean says, leaning in to nudge his nose against Seth’s once more, smiling at the noticeable hitch of breath with the gentle praise.  
  
Roman tucks his chin in the curve of Seth’s neck, beard scraping against flushed skin. “You did, sweetheart.” Seth shudders again. (Dean can relate, honestly. Sometimes, even he gets the urge to lie flat on his back and do whatever the big Samoan goof says, no argument, just because of that soothing goddamn voice. Maybe another day; tonight is all for Seth.) “Always trusting me like that, baby? You’re amazing.” Seth’s eyes are half-lidded, glazed over. His lips part on a stuttered sigh. “I think you deserve a little reward, sweetheart.” Roman looks at Dean, eyebrows raising while he presses a soft kiss to the line of Seth’s jaw. “What d’you think, uce?”  
  
Dean mock-considers, eyes dragging over Seth’s slack expression, the relaxed way he’s leaned back into Roman’s chest. (It’s such a far cry from how tense and unsettled he was when they’d left the arena, when Seth had been so silent after his loss earlier in the night as all the little insecurities had piled up until they’d blocked everything Dean and Roman worked hard to enforce in their boy’s overactive mind.) Finally, he relents. “I think he’s earned a little somethin’.”  
  
Between the two of them, they manage to settle Seth on top of Roman, cheek resting on a tattooed pec as the older man gently strokes some of his bleached strands back out of his eye and presses a soft kiss to the part in his hair. His thighs straddle Roman’s hips, his and Roman’s erections pressing together, and Dean takes a minute to admire the view from his position at the foot of the bed before he crawls forward and lies flat on his belly between Roman’s legs, trailing a few kisses along the Samoan’s thigh before he reaches the curve of Seth’s ass. Dean lets his breath fan over one plump cheek, lips just brushing the soft skin as he asks, “This okay, princess? You good?”


End file.
